


Hellfire Manor

by MidnightBlast



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (Comics)
Genre: Alchemy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, BAMF Charles Xavier, Creepy Sebastian Shaw, Erik doesn't know what hit him and won't admit the truth, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Haunted House tropes, Horror, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Suspicious Science, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 40,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27171676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightBlast/pseuds/MidnightBlast
Summary: When Erik’s Uncle Shaw died, he inherited Hellfire Manor - the one place he never wanted to see again. The house brims with a collection of the unusual, the exotic, and the macabre that he wasn’t allowed to explore as a teenager. But the strangest of all this is the life-size, lifelike wax figure of a man in the attic encased in a glass box with the purest blue eyes that Erik has ever seen. It’s an unblinking, captivating gaze that he could lose himself in. That is, until the day those blue eyesblinkback at him.Or, how Erik and Charles meet in hell and try to find heaven.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 92
Kudos: 98





	1. Get out

**Author's Note:**

> Yarr, here we go again. I stumbled across [this incredible Tumblr prompt](https://demonlady.tumblr.com/post/189264607964/marourin-trobador-mystery-horror-romance) and it seized my brain.
> 
> The underage and non-con are not graphic, but those themes are present.
> 
> The German comes courtesy of my husband's high school education many years ago, so if it's incorrect, I would love to correct it.
> 
> I've had fun crafting this fic, and hope it's an enjoyable contribution to the fandom. Cheers, y'all!

The property deed sat in Erik’s pocket, heavy as lead. 

The house was something he never wanted. In truth, it was something he never wanted to see again. The memories of those hellish days after his mother passed, when Uncle Shaw had graciously opened his doors with hospitality, still lingered all these years later. In that respect, the Hellfire Manor had truly earned its name as far as Erik was concerned.

He’d always assumed it was a casual name – a name that Uncle Shaw had bestowed on his intimidating home to guard against roving trouble in such an isolated location. But somehow, Erik wasn’t surprised to see the name proudly displayed in large, intricate lettering at the top of the property deed. And now – now, Erik was the sole owner and inheritor of the Hellfire Manor that stood before him.

Just his rotten luck.

A black, grimy film – likely mildew – clung to the hulking stone exterior. The gloomy effect it created paired with the dark, steeply pitched and pointed rooflines dotted with several stone chimneys. Imposing arched and round windows of various sizes punctuated the façade, each shrouded in the same black grunge as the walls. It fit with every haunted house trope that Erik knew of, but he refused to believe it was haunted. It was just stone, mortar, wood and glass. Sure, Shaw may have been the worst human being – but dead was dead, and this house was just a house.

Perhaps he’d knock it down. Or, perhaps, he could clean it up and sell it. He didn’t want to uproot his life in Stuttgart to live out in this admittedly creepy slice of Black Forest. He enjoyed his job at Mercedes-Benz R&D, making a decent enough salary to afford a cozy, if small, flat in a quiet slice of the city. His life had no place for this big, empty manor.

Hefting his helmet in one hand and backpack over his shoulder, he started up the stone steps to the covered front door. No matter his decision, he’d taken two weeks’ leave from work to sort out the affairs here. What that meant exactly, he couldn’t say yet. But he had two weeks to figure it out.

The skeleton key looked far more cartoonish than it had any right. A heavy, jagged thing that fit with the gothic, wrought iron hardware on the door. Where he expected a dramatic creak of groaning metal and wood, there was only silence as he pushed the solid front door open. In fact, where Erik expected furniture shrouded in sheets, thick layers of dust, thread-bare curtains and faded rugs – he found a vibrant interior. Rich furnishings, lush colors, each wall and surface in the entry hall packed with curiosities and items of interest. An eclectic, exotic collection that veered towards the fantastical, macabre and unnerving.

God, Erik hadn’t missed this place. He set his bag and helmet down on the plush rug, furrowing his brow as he glanced into what looked like a study. A roaring fire burned in the sharply carved stone fireplace, casting long shadows to dance over the gleaming wood and leather furnishings. But that didn’t make sense. The house _should_ be empty. His uncle had died over a month ago, and the lawyer hadn’t indicated anyone else lived here.

Erik crossed into the room, glancing around for signs of disturbance or forced entry. He may not care for the house, but it was still his property and trespassers were unwelcome. As he scanned the room bathed in flickering light, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, his senses rise to full alert. 

He turned with a deliberately slow motion to see a man standing in the doorway. A well-dressed, surprisingly young man in a crisp suit with long, black hair. He stared with fierce, dark eyes, as if willing Erik to burst into flames under the strength of his gaze alone. His hands were folded behind his back in silent expectation.

Erik leveled him with an equally hard stare. “Why are you in my house?”

The man blinked in solemn silence.

Irritation simmered under Erik’s skin as he clenched his jaw. “Get out. Sebastian Shaw no longer lives here.”

The mention of Shaw’s name spurred the man into motion. He entered the room on silent footsteps, crossing over to the large, polished desk. Like the entry hall, it too bore a unique collection of items – a gilded desk set, delicate glass lamps, loupes, magnifying glasses, a spray of various hourglasses. The dark-haired man reached into the top center drawer and withdrew a blood red envelope. He laid it on the reflective surface, his expression inscrutable as he gestured down to it with open invitation.

Even in the dim light, Erik could make out the spidery scrawl.

**Mein Kleiner Erik Lehnsherr**

Fuck that infuriating nickname. Even all these years later, he could still see Shaw’s smarmy smile and hear that voice dripping with disturbing, jovial warmth. Suppressing a disgusted shudder, he stepped forward to retrieve the offered envelope. As he lifted it, tearing against the black wax seal, the man opposite the desk inclined his head, retreating into the shadows of the entry hall just as quietly as he’d arrived.

Erik fought back his rising tide of impatience as he started to read.

**Mein Kleiner Erik,**

**I trust you are reading this letter at Mr. Janos Quested’s behest. While you are unlikely to ever hear the man speak, he has the manor’s best interests at heart and will continue to serve it well. A loyal housekeeper – excellent at invisibility as befitting a servant and meticulous in his duties – you shouldn’t find his presence obtrusive. Be forewarned that I took my meals at prescribed times which may be a habit of Mr. Quested’s that proves impossible to break. I’m sure you’ll understand.**

**How I have missed you, my boy. Our time together was cut unfairly short due to your sudden departure. At first, I was angry that you abandoned me – oh, the things we could have accomplished, Erik! If only you had grasped what I was trying to achieve, if only you had understood the gravity of my work. Perhaps you were too young to see. But I know you possess the strength of will and as the guardian of my legacy in Hellfire Manor, I expect you will do what is necessary.**

**In addition to Mr. Quested, you’ll find my estate similarly employs Azazel, my chauffeur. You needn’t mess around with your deathtrap on two wheels any longer. Ride in style, my boy – surely, you’ve earned a taste of luxury that your sad, little automotive research job will never afford you.**

**My home is now yours, Liebling. I trust you will be an ever loyal steward of my legacy. Should your loyalty prove faulty, however, please know that my servants’ loyalty will not. I know that you will be tempted to sever all ties here and return to your lonely life in Stuttgart, but I have full confidence that you will make the right decision in time.**

**With all affection from your loving uncle,  
Sebastian **

Erik’s heart hammered in his chest as he shook with anger. The disgusting, presumptuous nerve of that man, that fucking _monster_. Erik had wanted no part of the man’s legacy those 15 years ago, and he certainly wanted no part of it now. 

He skimmed the letter again, taking in the deliberate word choices. Shaw _trusted_ , Shaw _expected_ …even in death, the man still exerted his controlling influence. Erik’s eyes darted to the doorway, scanning for any signs of Mr. Quested’s presence. But he stood alone in the study with only the roaring fire and the sickening letter for company.

He did the only thing he could do. The letter crumpled with immense satisfaction before he lobbed it into the fireplace. As he stood, haunted by his memories and watching the fire destroy the nauseating words, he vowed that he wouldn’t let Shaw get the better of him.

He wouldn’t let Shaw control his life. 

Never again. 

_“Ah, mein kleiner Erik!” Uncle Shaw’s face brightened as Erik nudged open the master bedroom door. “Do come in - come in, please.”_

_Erik shuffled around the large door with ungainly teenage movements, closing it behind him. He knew that’s what Uncle Shaw would want. Old, jazzy music drifted from a gramophone in one corner of the bedroom, and Uncle Shaw sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in a long, velvet robe._

_“You look so tired, my boy,” Uncle Shaw smiled, warm and concerned, “I hope you’re not having trouble sleeping. I know my collections here can be...exotic and even frightening. That’s why I don’t want you exploring by yourself. But if you’re having trouble sleeping, I hope you would tell me what I can do to make it better.”_

_Erik felt his stomach roil and skin crawl, but he quickly shook his head. “No, sir, Uncle Shaw - I’m - I’m sleeping fine.”_

_Uncle Shaw shook his head, almost pitying, as he patted the bed beside him. “I understand it’s not easy for you - losing someone so close to you. But I’m here for you, Erik.”_

_With unwilling steps, Erik crossed to sit next to Shaw on the bed. Every night for the last two weeks, this had been the routine and it never got easier._

_Shaw smiled, pleased and smug. “I keep trying to tell you - to show you - that I’m here for you.” He raised a hand, laying it high on Erik’s thigh. “Won’t you let me be here for you, Erik? Won’t you let me in, mein kleiner Erik?”_

_Erik fought not to squirm under Uncle Shaw’s touch, not wanting to incur the man’s displeasure again. He struggled to offer what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’m sorry, uncle...it’s just...I really miss her.”_

_“Yes, we all miss Edie. But we shouldn’t let her death prevent us from coming together.” He paused, shaking his head as his smile took a manic edge. “Why Erik - with you at my side - there’s nothing we won’t accomplish. We can take the world by storm, create a lasting legacy, challenge the laws of men and gods!" His fingers tightened on Erik’s thigh, thumb stroking along the inseam of Erik’s pajama pants. “Why, we could even live forever. How’s that sound, Liebling?”_

_Truthfully, Erik didn't understand Uncle Shaw's words. No one could live forever. But he was a raging mess of teenage hormones at 15 years old and his body understood the tender caress so high on the inside of his thigh, even if the touch came from the most unwelcome of men. He forced a hard swallow, willing his body to cooperate. “I think that sounds...fine, Uncle Saw.”_

_Shaw lifted a dubious brow. “Just fine? Then, clearly I still haven’t convinced you to want it enough.” With a final teasing stroke and squeeze, Shaw withdrew his hand. “I’ll just have to try again tomorrow night.”_

_Erik cringed as Shaw said words that he said every night. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, Uncle Shaw.”_

_That hand, warm from his thigh, landed on Erik’s jaw, cupping the line of bone as that same thumb now stroked his cheek. “No need to apologize, Erik, please. I understand it’s a difficult time for you - growing into being your own man on top of this big adjustment to living with me. But I want you to know you’re doing so well, my boy. You’re such a good boy.” Shaw leaned in, bussing his lips to Erik’s other cheek,_

_Erik resisted the urge to cringe again. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t. Especially not while Uncle Shaw still had his hand on Erik’s face._

_“Goodnight, mein kleiner Erik. Sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite. But if they do - my bed is certainly big enough for two.”_


	2. You are not Sebastian Shaw

As impossible as it seemed, the gnarled skeleton key did, in fact, work for the interior doors throughout the manor. That first night, he focused his search on a bedroom, finding the familiar one from his youth with fresh sheets and polished mahogany furnishings. It gave him the uneasy feeling that his arrival had been expected. But, of course, why shouldn’t it? If Shaw spoke of Mr. Quested in the letter, why shouldn’t he have told his loyal housekeeper about who would inherit this mausoleum?

But on his first day, it didn’t take Erik long to organize his plan of attack for the manor. Much like his R&D work, he would make observations and gather all the available evidence before deciding on a course of action or reaching a conclusion. With notepad in hand, he started sketching a layout of the house, unlocking doors with the rough key and throwing open dust-free curtains to let in the meager sunlight that penetrated the grime coated windows. 

Opposite the study where he burned Shaw’s letter, he found what he dubbed the Crystal Library. The shelves were an unknown black wood; glass and crystal objects glittered between the spacing of dull, leather tomes. Tables of carved and polished glass flanked a shockingly brilliant white sofa in front of a chess board, two black leather armchairs, and another commanding fireplace. In fact, the whole room seemed to sparkle in the thin sunlight. But everything was dominated by a single sculpture – a human-height, crystal statue of a woman in lingerie. Intricate carvings showcased the woman’s beautiful facial features and scant clothing, but there was not a crack or scratch to be found on any faceted surface. Erik couldn’t help but think that she presided over the Crystal Library like a frozen queen.

At least, the dining room adjacent proved more normal. Well, if one considered a blood red stained wood table as normal. The chairs in black velvet and gold gilding presented an evocative image of dinner in Satan’s palace. Especially when paired with the two ostentatious thrones that resided at each end of the table, and the collection of artwork on the walls that featured such scenes as women burned at the stake and men locked in pillories.

The kitchen provided a breath of modernity. Gleaming stainless-steel appliances and black granite countertops leant a contemporary aesthetic that didn’t seem to fit with the rest of the house. At least, he would be able to navigate the kitchen with relative ease if he grew tired of eating the food that silently appeared on pristine silver trays throughout the day.

A small hallway connected the kitchen to the back part of the house, lined with closed doors and ending at a door with a narrow, circular window. He started with what was essentially the backyard. 

Stepping out into the cool air, he squinted at the sight, more out of disbelief than harsh light. He knew it was early September, but the garden that stretched out before him looked like a scene from a harsh January winter. Dried, brown stems swayed in the breeze, heavy with decaying remnants of their blooms. Shrubs devoid of leaves and jagged with dead branches added to the scene of neglect. But there was something else, too. Erik blinked, doing a double-take. A gravel walking path snaked through the dead garden flora, curiously free of any wild growth, but littered with shards of shattered glass. From the stoop, it was impossible to tell if it was intentional – perhaps a deterrent against intruders sneaking through the garden – but somehow he doubted it.

In a house with a life-size crystal woman and a dining room fit for hell – nothing here was done without purpose.

An imposing, two-story building sat just off from the garden. Likely an old carriage house now converted into a garage. Presumably that was where Mr. Quested and the chauffer resided, but he didn't need to explore that now. 

He made his notes, continuing to sketch his map, and stepped back inside. He tried the next room in the hallway, once again finding the skeleton key to live up to its name. There were no curtains in this room to open, and the windows here seemed darker than elsewhere. Erik fumbled along the wall for a light switch, not immediately locating one. With a mumbled curse, he reached for his phone, turning on the flashlight. Scanning the walls on either side of the door still yielded no light switch. Directing his phone light further into the room, Erik tried to make sense of it. Charred, half-burned remains of furniture occupied the space with peeling wallpaper, black and singed. Yet despite the wrecked state of the room, the floor was free of dust as if…as if this room was still regularly cleaned despite the obvious fire-damage.

Well, at least this was the only room so far that would require work before he could sell the place. The rest of the rooms could be emptied, and no one would be the wiser about their contents.

The room next door thankfully had a light switch. A light switch that lit up a brilliant array of art gallery style spotlights, illuminating walls full of glass display cases. Two elegant tete-a-tete couches sat in the middle of the otherwise empty, _disturbing_ room. Something about pinned insects under glass had always unnerved Erik, and each square centimeter of this room was covered in pinned, winged insects. Butterflies, moths, dragonflies, hornets, wasps. And highlighted as the centerpiece of the collection sat a pair of gigantic dragonfly wings, wider than the arm span of a human. The delicate membranes had random tears, and the severed connection joint looked raw and serrated. Erik closed the door behind him, making a note that _this_ would be the first room to dismantle.

When he reached the next door, he froze. There was no keyhole here, just a thick, ugly padlock. In the horror tropes, nothing about a padlock-secured room bode well, and Erik had to resist a petty roll of his eyes. Sure, Shaw had a penchant for the dramatic but even this seemed too much. He tried the key to no avail. Then, he gave a hearty, experimental tug on the padlock, finding it securely fixed in place. Right. He would have to get bolt cutters and come back later; for now, he simply labeled the room with a question mark.

The second story was largely a collection of bedrooms. He hadn’t even stepped into the master bedroom before he noted it as such and moved on. He had no desire to ever see the interior of that room again. The other four doors all lead to bedrooms in various décor, nothing as gruesome or disturbing as the discoveries downstairs. Perhaps with exception of the half-crumbled, grey golem that guarded the end of the long hall next to the attic staircase.

As Erik approached the staircase, he eyed the golem, hit with the irrational thought that it would reach out and attack him. Something about its red, seemingly marble eyes looked just disturbing enough. If he thought about it later, maybe he’d drape a sheet over it and see how long it took before Mr. Quested uncovered it.

But for now, the attic awaited. Sconces threw pale yellow light over the staircase that led up to the closed door. It gave way under Erik’s key and – even this space lacked the cobwebs and dust that Erik expected to see. Apparently, Mr. Quested was diligent, indeed. The knobbed switch on the wall lit overhead bulbs that dangled from thin, exposed wires, as if the whole arrangement was post-installed at the dawn of electricity.

Boxes and crates – all poorly or indeterminately marked – filled the sprawling attic, occasionally punctuated by an oblong shape draped in a sheet. He could hear wind whistling from somewhere, perhaps from a crack in one of the four round windows that sat one in each wall. The wood creaked under his steps as he surveyed the collection of stuff, dreading the prospect of sorting through it all and discarding it.

He rounded a stack of boxes and froze. There was a _man_ here. Well, maybe not quite a man – it couldn’t be – but certainly a life-size, incredibly lifelike wax figure of man. He was encased in a glass paned box with a brass frame that had been tilted back such that the…figure rested against the back pane of the box. Not eerily unlike a doll in a display box. 

On closer study, Erik had never seen eyes so blue. The blue of crystal oceans. The blue of pure sky. Such a mesmerizing color that he felt like he could drown in that unblinking stare. The surrounding skin of the man’s face was so fair, almost like porcelain. Dark, lush hair covered his head and a few strands hung loose over his forehead. And never had Erik seen lips with such a natural, rose-tinted stain. The lean lines of the man’s body were clothed in a button down shirt and trousers, the style generic enough that it didn’t hold any clues as to what it - _he_ – was supposed to be.

With one last glance at the immaculate face, he turned to his notepad, jotting down a notation before turning to continue his survey of the house.

But those blue eyes haunted his every moment. Every time he sat to organize his notes, or take a bite of the surprisingly gourmet meals that materialized out of nowhere, or close his eyes to sleep – his mind always reverted to those unblinking blue eyes that lay in the attic overhead.

What was the reason for owning such a figure like that? Yes, Erik knew firsthand of Shaw’s proclivity for younger men, but the figure in the attic seemed too elaborate to be nothing more than a glorified sex toy. So then, what was it? A sculpture? Artwork that Shaw no longer wanted? 

His ceaseless curiosity drove him back to the attic more often than not. There were just too many questions, and there was just something so peaceful about gazing into that blank stare. Something so freeing in sitting next to the still figure as he thought up plans for the house’s contents, thought on what he would do with the encased inhabitant. The inhabitant with such pristine features who spoke to Erik in a language he’d never heard before and didn’t understand.

Erik stared, yet again. His mind distracted, yet _again_ . Normally, he prided himself on his mental discipline, able to focus without fail and solve the toughest of problems on the tightest of deadlines. But this…there just _had_ to be something more. He took in the otherworldly blue of those eyes again before forcing his own eyes shut with a mental scold. He needed to stop this silly fixation. He needed to focus – he only had another nine days before he needed to get back to Stuttgart.

He opened his eyes and nearly choked. The blue eyes had shifted to _look_ at him. Slowly, the lids descended in a blink, clarity seeping into the vibrant depths as the pupils expanded and contracted in the attic light.

Erik pushed to his feet in a rush, eyes wide as he took in the blinking figure in the glass box.

Confusion crept into the crystal gaze, an elegant brow arching as a mellifluous voice spoke. “You are not Sebastian Shaw.”


	3. Plus or minus a few years

Erik stared at the man – the _alive_ man – in the glass box. He forced a hard swallow. “No, I’m not Shaw.”

The man nodded ever so slightly, fingers twitching at his side as if just having regained feeling. “That is indeed a welcome change. You have the serum, then?”

“Serum?” Erik didn’t like the sound of that. Especially as he watched the man’s calm daze give way to something more alert, more cautious.

“He did tell you, did he not? Surely, he left instructions.” The refined, polished syllables were crisp with a demand even through the muffle effect of the glass pane.

Erik shook his head. “No, he didn’t. Shaw didn’t tell me anything about this place.”

“Then, you have to let me out. Immediately.” Those blue eyes burned with sudden desperation despite his collected tone. “If you don’t, I very much doubt that you’ll like the outcome.”

He arched an affronted brow. “Who are you to make threats? I don’t know who – or _what_ – you are. Why would I just let you out?”

The man exploded into motion, lunging forward and upsetting the inclined balance of the glass case. The front pane shattered in a fantastic spray of glass that Erik quickly raised his arms to dodge, but still felt some stinging blows. Swift, airy footsteps raced across the attic as Erik watched the lithe figure sprint away.

Erik chased after the other man, down the attic stairs and hallway towards the grand staircase for the ground floor. Surprisingly, the shorter man was agile on his feet and certainly stronger than Erik had originally guessed. Especially as Erik failed to gain ground on him through the small hallway off the kitchen. For a heart-stopping second, Erik thought the man meant to escape to the dead garden, but instead, he turned for the padlocked door.

He wrapped an elegant, pale hand around the padlock and pulled with a hard jerk. The metal sheared and split, the damaged remains of the lock dropping to the floor as he ripped the door open, disappearing inside.

Erik snarled in frustration as he tore after the man. “What the hell are you doing?!” The doorway had opened into a spiral, brick staircase that led down to the depths beneath the house. Another thin wire with scattered light bulbs, similar to the attic arrangement, adorned the round center column as Erik descended the stairs. 

“No time to explain right now.” The cultured voice echoed off the brick. “If I don’t find what I need, then it won’t matter anyway.”

The dimly lit stairs yielded under Erik’s feet to a brightly lit space with a crude brick floor that stretched across a large room with surprisingly tall brick walls and high-arched brick ceilings. He struggled to take in everything at once. The spread of long worktables, the gleam of glass containers and metal instruments, the drape of electrical apparatus wires – even the sheen of a metal gurney table. The air hung heavy with a mix of astringent scents and ozone, the walls lined with more shelves, cabinets, tables, a hulking hearth, and equipment - even a few solid doors with no windows. What…just what the hell was this place?

The subject of his chase stood at a cabinet along the far wall, tearing through its contents – mostly a collection of jars. Despite the desperation from the attic, the man’s face was the picture of calm determination as he searched, focused on this task. Erik blinked, taking a second look.

Did…did the man have a _beard_ now? Sure enough, Erik could see the growth of red-tinted facial hair covering the man’s jaw. And...and his hair was longer. How was that possible? The more Erik continued to look, the more the man’s face also looked so wrinkled and…aged. As if he was suddenly - inexplicably - decades older. 

Erik could do nothing but watch as the man, at long last, pulled a vial of bright yellow liquid free of the cabinet. He turned to survey the worktables, seeking out his next item of need. With strong steps, he wove around to a small tray that sat nestled in amongst the collection of laboratory tools. He ripped at his long sleeve, quickly exposing a sturdy forearm littered with puncture scars. From the table, he lifted a leather strap with a clasp, synching it just above his elbow and gripping the end in his teeth. Then, he lifted a syringe with the thickest needle Erik had ever seen.

His gut twisted as he watched the slender man steadily fill the syringe from the yellow vial before turning it to his protruding vein. A pained hiss sounded as the needle broke skin, the yellow liquid disappearing into man’s arm. Discarding the syringe, the man loosened the leather strap with a relieved sigh, eyes dropping closed as he took deep breaths.

Still numb with shock from the whole scene, Erik watched the man’s face smooth out, the pristine pallor returning to his visage, and those eyes shining just as bright and vibrant as they had all these past days. The red beard still decorated his face and his hair hung around his ears, but while the young man in the attic had been a fresh-faced youth, Erik now stood before a slightly more mature man with refined, gracefully aged features.

As if feeling the weight of Erik’s stare, he turned towards Erik with an almost bashful expression. “Apologies for that, my friend. I do hope you’ll forgive me.” He waved vaguely at his face. “But the aging process needed to be arrested.”

Erik’s tongue felt heavy in his mouth. “Aging process?” It didn’t make sense, but, really, what about this house and its contents had made sense so far? “How old are you?”

An impish smile graced the man’s face. “Rather a forward question before proper introductions, wouldn’t you say? I’m Charles Xavier.”

Erik blinked, unimpressed. “Erik Lehnsherr. Now, what the hell is going on? One minute, you’re laying in a glass box in my uncle’s attic, and the next, you’re…you’re shooting up in his basement and talking about an aging process.”

“Yes – if Shaw really didn’t explain anything to you, then yes – I can only imagine how confusing it all is.” Charles placed a hand in his trousers pocket as he took small steps between the work tables, a thin trail of blood on his forearm. “Shaw was your uncle, you said?”

“Yes.” Erik bit the word out, fighting back the wave of adrenaline that slowly converted to irritation.

“Then, does that make you-"

“The new owner of this house, yes. Get to the point where you explain, Charles… _now_.”

He licked his lips, highlighting their rosy tint, suddenly looking unsure. “Well, I…I was 24 when you found me in that glass box in the attic. Your uncle, he…found a way to preserve people – _alive_ – at any age. When I woke up, that meant the serum wore off and I needed more, otherwise, I would start to age quite rapidly. A rather fitting atonement for tampering with the natural order of growing old. But as you can see,” he swept a hand along his facial hair, drifting up to feel around his eyes, his longer hair, “I’ve aged some…I’m probably in my mid-thirties by now. It took quite a bit of effort to get from the attic to the basement, and the faster the heart rate, well….”

Erik arched a dubious brow. “So, because I didn’t have whatever you injected yourself with – this serum – you aged almost a decade in the span of five minutes?”

“Something like that, yes.”

The words were easy enough to understand, but the grasp of full understanding would take time. Erik nodded shortly. “But none of that explains who you are, why you’re here…Shaw’s letter didn’t mention you.”

Charles smiled ruefully. “I assume you’ve already met Mr. Quested and Azazel.”

Maybe Charles was on the level. But then again, maybe Shaw had left Charles in that glass box on purpose…was this the test of loyalty from Shaw’s letter? Or was Charles something else altogether?

Erik drew up his full height, sweeping the room with a hard stare. “What is this place? It looks like a laboratory.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Of course not. If nothing else, Shaw would have needed a place to pin and preserve all those insects displayed upstairs. Erik tried not to think of the human-sized dragonfly wings as he started a slow circuit into the room, inspecting cabinet contents. “You said that Shaw could preserve people at any age…that goes beyond any ordinary lab work.”

“The word you’re looking for is alchemy.”

Alchemy? Seriously? He turned with a furious scowl. “Do take me for an idiot? Alchemy's not real - impossible ventures to turn lead into gold. Charlatans who claimed the power of sorcery to improve the human condition often to the detriment of those subjected to their treatments.”

Charles merely arched a brow, something secretive lurking in his brilliant blue eyes. The corner of his mouth curled ever so slightly, doing nothing to put Erik at ease. In fact, the man’s very presence – even over the last four days, motionless in that glass box – flew in the face of Erik’s words. Sure, Erik knew Shaw had to be involved in questionable undertakings, but…alchemy? For _real_?

Erik swallowed. “Alchemy?”

Charles’ gaze was far too shrewd as he swept over Erik’s face. “Something tells me you already know the answer to your question.”

Erik scoffed, turning away from Charles, back to study the cabinets. This one was filled with various chemicals in marked plastic containers, with only a few that Erik recognized. The next cabinet held empty beakers, graduated cylinders, syringes with hideously huge needles, microscope slabs, and so forth.

“Perhaps now,” Charles’ voice carried across the room, “you’ll be willing to answer a question of my own?”

“Ask it and we’ll see if I’m willing.” Erik continued to scan the room’s contents – the oscilloscopes, the centrifuges, the Bunsen burners.

“What is the current year?”

Erik’s gaze drifted back to Charles, rethinking everything that the shorter man had said. Suddenly, it dawned on him - if Charles had indeed been preserved by Shaw, then, how long had he been 24…? He sighed, not able to ignore Charles’ question. “It’s 2019.”

Charles’ eyes brightened with surprised disbelief. “2019? That’s incredible. I had quite thought mankind would be in a nuclear winter before the year 2000.”

Erik wondered if he would regret his next question. “How long were you preserved, Charles?”

Fascination over the current year drained from Charles’ face, replaced by something guarded. Almost haunted. “I was born in 1916.”

“1916….” Erik’s words trailed off, unsure exactly what else to say. What was he supposed to say to someone who should by all rights not only be dead, but also look 103 years old who instead had the appearance of someone younger than him? “So, you’ve been 24 since 1940.”

“Plus or minus a few years.”

“For almost 80 years?”

The corner of Charles’ mouth lifted with wry disdain. “Your uncle was good at quick math, too.”

“Don’t compare me to that fucking monster. _Ever._ ”

The biting words made Charles stand up a little straighter, regarding Erik with intrigued curiosity and honest regret. “My sincerest apologies, Erik. I already know that you are nothing like him.” 

Erik pinched his lips together, words failing him. He’d never had a lot of use for them and he’d already said far too much for…whatever this situation was. He nodded at length, a truce, an acknowledgement.

But now what? Of course, he had countless other questions. There was still so much to understand. Did he keep pestering Charles with questions? At what point would the shorter man have enough of the barrage? Erik shook his head, mentally scolding himself. He wasn’t usually an indecisive man. He made decisions and stuck to his chosen course of action. What about this house - why was this place causing him such deliberation?

“Your face is bleeding.” Charles’ voice cut gently across the room. “Would you mind if I…?”

Erik looked up in time to see Charles wave his fingers, indicating the wounds on Erik’s face. It was then that Erik could feel the congealing trails of blood on his skin, the sting of the abrasions, and something sharp on his cheek. He blew a sigh, shaking his head by way of answer. What did he really have to lose?

Charles crossed around the end of a work table, pulling out a stool from under the tall table. “Have a seat.” He patted the stool top before walking over to a white, glass-front cabinet on the opposite wall.

Warily, Erik approached the proffered stool as he kept an eye on Charles. The supplies that he gathered, a small red kit and bright white towel, looked innocent enough. A sudden exhaustion washed over Erik as he sat on the stool, but he didn’t dare let his guard down.

Water ran from a sink inset in a long work table as Charles wet the towel.

Erik watched, hoping he didn't look too suspicious. “This is quite the setup. You sure know your way around it.”

“I don’t doubt that Shaw had only the best that indiscrete money could buy,” Charles agreed as he approached, setting the kit on the table and raising the towel to Erik’s face. “He’s also a creature of habit, as are most humans, so it’s simple enough to find what’s needed.”

Erik kept his face neutral as Charles wiped away the tacky blood rivulets, but he steadfastly refused to meet Charles’ gaze. Those eyes were mesmerizing enough at a distance and Erik didn’t want to chance a close encounter.

“Though, I have been wondering,” Charles’ voice dropped to a soft, hesitant tone, “where is Shaw now?”

“He’s dead.”

“Dead?” Charles’ hand froze, his face slack. Clearly, that wasn’t the answer he expected. His jaw tightened. “You _saw_ him dead?”

“No,” Erik’s brow pinched in confusion, “no, the lawyer – Hendry – notified me of his passing about a month ago. I could have come to the burial, but…there was no love lost-.” His words cut off in a hiss as the towel brushed a tender spot on Erik’s cheek.

Charles quickly withdrew. “Apologies – it looks like you may have some glass still in the wound.” He turned for the red kit, undoing the snap to reveal neatly packaged medical supplies. Plastic crackled as he tore open the fine-tipped tweezers. “Do you trust this lawyer, Hendry?”

Erik grit his teeth as Charles’ fingers fell to the underside of his jaw, gently tilting his face to better see in the room’s bright light. He held his breath as the cold metal of the tweezers connected with his skin, fishing for the errant glass shard. They withdrew just as quick, a smile of satisfaction warming Charles’ face.

Erik felt he could breathe again as Charles released his jaw. “I don’t know the lawyer. He called as the executor of Shaw’s estate, and informed me Shaw had left Hellfire Manor in my name.” The sting of alcohol burned along the cuts as Charles dabbed with antiseptic gauze wipes. “I’m thinking of selling the place. Or knocking it down.” Erik didn’t know what compelled him to confess his plans. Maybe talking it through with Charles would help – maybe…hell, maybe Charles _wanted_ this godforsaken place.

The other man’s movements slowed as he pulled back. “I see,” he said vaguely, turning for the worktable and gathering the used supplies in a metal tray that he grabbed from a nearby stack. “And what is the timeline for your decision?”

Erik knew better than to reveal all his cards. “Soon.” 

The shorter man nodded in acknowledgement as he closed up the kit and set the metal tray aside. “Then, I await your final decision with great anticipation.”

Something about Charles’ tone didn’t sit right with Erik. It was too complacent. Too _purposefully_ complacent. Erik fought to keep the obvious suspicion from his face.

“Well, unless you prefer lingering in basement laboratories,” Charles started gently, “then, I think we’ve accomplished all we can here for one day.”

Slowly, Erik nodded. “Right.” He pushed up from the stool. “Thank you for….” He mimicked Charles’ gesture from earlier, indicating his face.

Charles’ answering smile was quite possibly the most disarming thing Erik had ever seen. “You’re welcome, my friend.”

With striking, alarming clarity, Erik realized that he wanted it to be true – he wanted to trust Charles, he wanted this man with the earnest eyes and warm smile to be his friend. But he knew better. He glanced over to the stairs, motioning for Charles to go ahead. “Well, come on…let’s – let's get a room for you, I suppose. Did you have one before?”

“What I had before is of no consequence. I would be delighted to take you up on your offer.”

Right. Sure. Erik nodded as they started up the stairs, struggling to recall how else to act like a host. He’d never had anyone stay at his flat in Stuttgart. “I’ll, uh, let Mr. Quested know to also prepare food for you now that you’re…,” he didn’t finish that thought, “but I don’t know how successful it will be.”

“You needn’t trouble yourself on my account, please.” A placating smile accompanied Charles’ words. “I don’t want to be a burden on your hospitality.”

The whole conversation felt wrong. Too stilted. Too constricted. The knowledge that they both had things they weren’t saying gnawed at Erik. Especially as they reached the top of the stairs and Erik’s gaze landed on the destroyed remains of the padlock.

It came back to him in a rush, remembering how Charles had ripped it from the door as though it had been made of paper. Erik pointed down at the lock as he stepped over it. “How did you manage that?”

“Oh, that?” Charles’ smile was too innocent for Erik’s liking. “Must have been corroded, I suppose. It gave way without much effort.”

Erik reigned in a triumphant smirk, wanting to cry bullshit. He recalled the strength in that lock when he tested it earlier and felt justified that his suspicion about Charles was warranted. In silence, they crossed the length of the hallway back into the entry hall and up the stairs to the second floor. The last vestiges of daylight filtered in through the shrouded windows, but Mr. Quested had turned on just enough lights to cast a lush, golden glow over the interior.

Each time he set foot on the upper landing and adjoining hallway, Erik swore he could feel the golem’s beady red eyes following every step. Of course, it was absolutely unreasonable and he purposefully ignored the solemn, crumbling figure. If he recalled right, this bedroom here should be suitable. Discreetly, he reached for the skeleton key, turning the lock and opening the door to a room dressed in green and burnt orange with an en suite. It wasn’t much, but there was a tidy bed and wood furniture carved with folklore scenes of wood sprites and gnomes. Somehow, that seemed fitting for Charles.

He turned back to the shorter man, watching him take in the bedroom décor. “I hope this will be comfortable for you.”

Charles looked back at Erik as if he couldn’t believe it. “Yes, this looks quite lovely. Thank you, Erik.”

He nodded, unsure what to say next. “I know it’s early, but I’ll –.”

“Please, there’s no need,” Charles cut him off, sighing gently, “I actually would prefer to rest, if it’s all the same to you. I’d forgotten how draining the process is, and 2019, well…it’s all a bit much to take in.”

Right. Well, that made it easier. Erik reached for the door with a short nod. “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, my friend.” Charles’ mouth lifted with a hint of a soothing smile.

But Erik didn’t buy it. Couldn’t buy it. Not when Charles had so deliberately lied to him. He closed the door behind him, feeling the heavy weight of the key in his pocket. If Charles was playing some kind of game with him, then he wasn’t going to let Charles off that easy. He stuck the key in the keyhole, turning the lock with an audible click. An audible click that Charles could no doubt hear.

Tucking the key back into his pocket, Erik felt a thrill of victory. But then he caught the stony gaze of the golem at the end of the hall, and it was short lived. He was still stuck right where he was – with this house, with the weight of his impending decision. And now, with an alchemist’s basement laboratory and a 103-year-old…victim? Prisoner? Assistant?

Just what had Charles _been_ to Shaw?

None of the implications sat well with him as he turned to head back downstairs. Neither was the nagging thought that he wasn’t any better than Shaw. Sure, Shaw locked Charles in a glass box, but now Erik had done no better by locking him in a bedroom. But there were just too many unknowns and Erik preferred to control situations of high risk.

And if a man waking from some perverted science-induced stasis wasn’t a high risk situation, then Erik didn’t know what was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading - the kudos & notes on the first two chapters helped brighten my days!


	4. Fighting for survival

Erik slept fitfully. He blamed the golem at the end of the hall. He blamed the crystal woman in the library. He blamed the room of winged insects. But mostly, he blamed the damnable blue eyes now just down the hall. 

Securing his bedroom door, Erik stepped out in the hallway to start his day. No matter the time of day, Mr. Quested always adjusted the interior lighting to maintain the same golden, shadowy glow. It was rather disorienting to Erik's circadian rhythm, and with very little natural light filtering into the house, it was almost impossible to tell the time of day without resorting to his watch.

Ignoring the rumble of hunger in his belly, he paused to survey Charles’ closed bedroom door. Of course, it should still be closed. But after the display with the padlock yesterday, Erik half expected to find the door ajar with a damaged frame. Unable to resist, he gave the knob a turn, satisfied to meet the lock’s resistance. 

But by now, he knew Mr. Quested’s food schedule, and he found the breakfast tray in its usual spot on the desk in the study. As he lifted the lid to reveal a sausage and fennel omelet, he couldn’t help but wonder what business Shaw tended to here. It stood to reason that he’d written the letter to Erik at the large, dominating desk. But was this where he perfected formulas for his experiments? Or researched theories for exploration?

He refused to sit in the wide, black leather chair behind the desk, preferring to give it a wide berth as if it might be contagious. With plate and fork in hand, he threw open the curtain to peer out at the early morning light. From what he could see, clouds blanketed the sky looking heavy with the promise of rain. Of course, just his luck. Today, he’d planned to start easy with cleaning up the glass shards in the garden. He might even start ripping up the dead foliage, depending how deep the roots went. Perhaps he could even enlist Charles’ help after taking stock of tools in the garage.

Chugging down the last of the coffee, he left the study for the hallway that lead out to the garden. He noted the door to the laboratory was closed, if still unlocked, just as he’d left it last night. Pushing out into the grey dawn, he looked over towards the large, ornate garage. Surely, there had to be gardening or lawn tools in there somewhere. His footsteps crunched along the fine gravel path, scanning the house as he walked. More of the black, dingy film clung to the exterior, and he hoped the garage also had a pressure washer. That would wake this place up.

His gaze froze on one of the chimneys. Was…was that smoke _purple_? He stared at the wafting plume against the clouds, hoping it was just an illusion of the cloud-filtered sunlight. But the longer he stared at it, the more the truth sank in his gut.

Just what the _fuck_ was going on?

He stormed back into the house, intent on tracking down the offending hearth. His eyes landed on the laboratory door with a sense of dread. It was the fireplace that he least wanted to start with, but it seemed the most fitting candidate.

He pushed the door open, mood souring further to see the rickety string of lights illuminated. So, someone _was_ down here. Anger close to boiling, he descended the winding stairs in swift strides, stopping at the bottom landing to take in the scene before him.

A roaring fire burned in the hulking hearth with a cauldron on a swing arm suspended over the flames. An alarming shade of purple smoke rose from the unknown contents. The closest worktable was a collection of various jars and bottles – some clear, some brown – with all manner of contents. Test tubes, pipers and distillation columns flanked the working space with liquids in various colors, in various stages of development. And, at the center of it all, stood Charles.

He bent low over the table, adjusting the flame of a Bunsen burner, wearing what looked like welding goggles beneath his deliciously ruffled hair. He’d traded in yesterday’s clothes for dark gray pants in a loose, yet flattering fit – especially as the fabric pulled against the swell of his backside – and a thin, blue shirt with sleeves rolled above his elbows. The clothes had a decidedly vintage vibe about them, despite the fact that he’d also somehow gotten his hands on a razor, shaving off his red facial hair and lopping off his longer locks of hair into a style with an oddly modern edge. His tongue darted out, swiping those lush lips as he concentrated.

The sight was arresting. For a brief minute, Erik forgot why he should be so angry, forgot why he had raged down here. Suddenly, he burned with one all consuming question.

_Have you always been so beautiful?_

A hiss from a kettle broke Erik’s reverie, and reality flooded back. This was Charles – Charles who should still be locked in his bedroom where Erik left him. Charles who supposedly shouldn't still be alive at 103 years old. Charles who was a guest in Erik’s house and doing…God knows what.

“Stop what you’re doing, Charles.” Erik’s voice filled the brick room, purposefully hard with an intimidating edge.

Slowly, the other man turned from the table, but only after sweeping its contents to confirm that he could divert his attention. He lifted a hand to the goggles, raising them to tousle his dark hair to unfairly attractive flyaway angles. He didn’t have the gall to look surprised or contrite at being caught. “Good morning, Erik.”

“The door to your bedroom is still locked.”

“Yes, well,” the corner of Charles’ lips lifted with a wicked curl, “you knew the truth of the padlock last night, despite not admitting it, so you shouldn’t be surprised now.”

But Erik was surprised, dammit. It couldn’t be much past 8 am, yet it looked like Charles had been at work for hours. How had he been able to do all this without Erik having the faintest clue? He shook his head. “You need to stop this, Charles. In fact, you should have asked.”

Charles hummed, crossing his arms against the front of his chest. “When you give vague answers to specific questions, you can’t expect to get full transparency in return. I’ll merely tell you that I am not stopping but I mean you no harm. Truthfully, I am only doing what every living creature is best at.”

“Authoring its own destruction?”

“Fighting for survival.”

Something crackled and sizzled in the purple smoking pot, drawing Charles’ attention. He stepped away from the table, reaching for a pair of thick, tan gloves in his back pocket. Slipping them on, he reached for a nearby bellows, releasing gusts of air to push the lingering purple smoke curls towards the draw of chimney smoke.

Erik stared after him. “What is that?” 

“Crystal iodine and aluminum powder, to start.” Charles reached for the swing arm, moving the cauldron off the flame. “Shaw’s notes discuss the need for a catalyst, though I haven’t fully pieced it together yet.”

“Who are you?” Erik blurted the question, unable to hold it back.

Charles moved back to the table for a long handled spoon and glass beaker, shaking his head dismissively as he spoke. “Just a biology professor turned soldier turned captive. Make no mistake, this place has been my prison for far too long, but I found ways to work it to my advantage, so to speak.” He stepped back to the cauldron, carefully dipping the spoon into its contents. “Once I have the means to sustain a reasonable lifespan, I will gladly vacate the premises never to return.”

Erik shook his head. “I can’t just let you have free reign down here, Charles – you said it yourself. Giving vague answers doesn’t earn you trust. And, quite frankly, I don’t trust you. Not when you lied about the padlock.”

Charles sighed as if he knew this was unavoidable, drawing back the spoon and pouring a measure of grey powder into the beaker. He stepped back to the table before turning to face Erik with a stern look. “Then, I’m sure you know there’s nothing that you can do to stop me. Even locked doors aren’t enough.”

“What is it, hmm? Superhuman strength?”

Charles shrugged as he worked. “Superhuman is hard to gauge, but certainly more strength than someone of my build should possess. A side effect - unexpected and unintentional, as I recall.” He shook his head as if remembering something fondly even though his face was grim. “Not even Shaw had all the answers, even though he loved to present himself as such.”

Erik watched him add a small amount of powder to the beaker suspended over the Bunsen burner. The liquid bubbled and frothed with the addition. He forced a hard swallow, fist clenching as Charles continued to work. “Charles, I said _stop_.”

“That would be ill advised.”

Erik was across the room in a flash, looming at Charles’ side, trying to leverage his height for intimidation. It took far less effort with his coworkers. But Charles continued to focus on his efforts, reaching now for a disturbingly green liquid in a clear, corked jar. Erik hissed in frustration. “Stop ignoring me.”

Charles shook his head as if accommodating a child. “My friend, I don’t think you understand –"

Erik’s hand shot forward, harshly gripping Charles’ right wrist to still his movements. In a sudden blur of motion, Erik grunted as the side of his face slammed against the cool metal tabletop. A heavy hand pressed against his neck as the other wrenched his arm back to the point of pain. He struggled to breathe through the disorientation, to process what had just happened.

The weight of that lean body pressed against him, Charles’ breath brushing his ear in words laced with icy venom. “Do not _ever_ touch me uninvited again.”

All at once, the pressure withdrew from Erik’s neck and his arm was allowed to fall slack. With a blazing scowl, he pulled back from the table, staring down Charles’ stony expression and assertive stance. Erik debated his next move as a throbbing ache settled in his skull. Physically attacking Charles wouldn’t get him anywhere – god, it had taken him no effort to pin Erik against the table. And Erik was, admittedly, woefully out of his depth in this laboratory. But he seethed with pent-up frustration and fury at Charles so easily getting the upper hand on him.

Charles took a retreating step, shifting his stance to something Erik’s brain registered as less threatening. He even raised his hands in supplication as a smile curled his lips. His cheeks were flushed in the most tempting way as he spoke. “You know, I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I am not your enemy, and I have nothing against you. Perhaps…perhaps it would be better for us to start over.”

Start over? Who was Charles kidding? Erik just stared back.

Charles tilted his head down, leveraging those clear blue eyes. “This is my olive branch, Erik. If you do not accept it, then, I will do what I must.”

Erik licked his lips, fighting to put the situation back under his control. Especially if locked doors were worthless. Perhaps he couldn't offer an olive branch in return, but somewhere they could meet on more equal footing. His mind flashed to the contents of the Crystal Library. At length, he spoke. “Do you play chess?”

Charles’ face pinched in obvious surprise, and Erik relished the momentary victory. The look faded quickly from Charles’ face, replaced with something far more insightful, almost fond. “Yes…yes, I think that will be a much better meeting ground for our conversation.”

Erik nodded curtly. He hoped it hadn’t started raining outside. It would be nice to actually accomplish something tangible today. “Good. Then…then, I’ll let you have a free pass for today. Down here with…all this. Until we talk and set the record straight.”

Charles’ eyes sparkled with the knowledge that Erik wasn’t actually allowing him anything. Of course he knew, just as Erik did, that Erik couldn’t really stop him.

Blue-eyed bastard.

But Charles nodded slowly. “Shall we say 8 pm? You’ll forgive me if I’m old-fashioned that way.”

There was something charming on the words, and Erik suddenly felt like he was agreeing to something different. But he returned Charles’ nod. “8 pm, the library.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The kudos and comments on this tale continue to be bright spots - thank you for your feedback! It is so appreciated.  
> And I couldn't resist the 'Atonement' costume reference. He just looked *so* good in the fountain scene.


	5. The game’s unfinished

By 7:58 pm, Erik’s back ached incessantly. Picking up the shards of glass had been a bitch. He couldn’t believe how much had littered the ground, and trying to isolate it from the gravel pathway had taken far longer than anticipated. At least, the rain had held off. A small mercy. 

The heat from the shower had helped, but Erik suppressed a wince of discomfort as he descended the stairs. It would be nice to sit down even if he wasn’t sure what to make of this upcoming meeting.

He’d spent all day deliberately not thinking about the encounter in the laboratory. Not thinking about the fit of Charles’ clothing. The passion on his face. The strong feel of Charles’ hand on his neck. Erik had only a small handful of past lovers, but they’d never presented much of a physical challenge and usually expected Erik to drive the encounter. Though Erik’s body had definitely taken notice that Charles could adequately and deliciously take command of any encounter.

Not that Erik intended to pursue him. That wasn’t the point of this meeting, no matter the nagging notion that it somehow felt like a date. He just needed to know if he could trust Charles, or if he was a pawn in Shaw’s game, part of the twisted world inside this house. That was all.

He rounded the door frame to the library, taking note of the room as it glittered and twinkled with firelight. A roaring fire commanded the hearth and cast an otherworldly yet pleasant glow on the occupant of one of the black armchairs.

“I’m pleased to see you, Erik.” Charles greeted with a warm smile. “I had considered the possibility that you would use this time to dismantle the basement.”

Erik wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting that the thought had briefly crossed his mind. He was the master of this manor, after all. He shouldn’t have to indulge Charles to get his way with his house. Instead, his gaze swept the shorter man clad in dark trousers, a striped shirt and navy cardigan. It certainly looked like fitting attire for a professor, but interesting that Charles had access to such clothing. The table of crystal chess pieces stretched between his chair and the white sofa, and a crystal highball of brown liquor rested on the table near Charles' knee.

Erik nodded towards the highball. “Where did you find that?” He didn’t recall a visible bar in his survey of the house. In fact, he couldn’t even recall seeing a decanter.

Charles’ smile turned decidedly amused. “As the new master of this manor, you still have much to learn.” He rose, sidestepping over to the bookcase lined wall. Reaching a hand forward, he twisted a crystal skull on the shelf and the bookcase unlatched from the wall.

Erik watched in annoyed disbelief as a gleaming mirrored and glass bar came into view behind the bookcase. Rows of decanters decorated the shelves, intermixed with highballs, martini glasses and barware tools. Even a minifridge sat on the lower shelf. The whole setup looked just as clean and well-cared for as the rest of the house. Erik fought back a wave of frustration as he wondered how many additional secrets Mr. Quested kept for himself.

“What’s your poison?” Charles' face pinched in sudden consideration on his words. “Or, perhaps that’s not how it's said anymore? Or, more simply…what would you prefer to drink?”

In spite of himself, Erik felt a smile wanting to creep onto his face. “A martini.” 

“A martini,” Charles echoed, turning back for the bar, “right. That’s with vodka usually, yes?”

“You go sit,” Erik said, crossing over to the bar, “I don’t need to spend time walking you through it.” Also, he wasn’t convinced yet that Charles wouldn’t make an extra, unwanted addition. Surely, that laboratory held its fair share of toxins and poisons. 

Charles relented without protest, stepping away and moving back for his armchair.

It didn’t take Erik long to pour a martini to his taste, topping it with a skewer of olives. Stemmed glass in hand, he turned for the couch, sitting opposite Charles and taking the black obsidian pieces for himself. A surprisingly comfortable silence fell as Charles moved a crystal pawn. Erik followed with an obsidian piece as he sipped his martini. The fire crackled between them as the game progressed.

Erik nudged his rook forward, gaze sliding over to his companion. In the brief time that Erik had known him, the shorter man came across as fairly loquacious. By contrast, it made his current silence awkwardly telling. Perhaps he didn’t know where to start. Perhaps Erik could throw him a bone. “So, biology professor, huh?”

“In title only, I’m afraid,” Charles said softly as he reached for his highball. “I was granted professorship just in time to be drafted.”

Erik recalled the year. “In 1940?”

“1939. Drafted into the British Expeditionary Force and shipped off to France.”

Erik nearly fumbled his knight at the implication, recalling his World War II history. “So, the Dunkirk evacuations...you were there?”

The shorter man kept his face trained on the board, appearing to consider his next move. His brow was furrowed in concentration, but also in struggle with obvious, long-forgotten ghosts of his past. Erik couldn’t look away from the fascinating play of emotions across Charles’ face. 

Sliding a crystal pawn forward, Charles sat back against his chair, elongating his torso. Somehow, he managed to make a frumpy cardigan look lean and attractive. The line of his throat worked with a swallow of liquor before he spoke. “Yes, I was. Though, due to circumstances beyond my control, I literally missed the boat, as the saying goes. I was left to fend for myself on the continent and that is how I crossed paths with your uncle.” He sniffed softly, hand curling tighter around his highball as his face drew in. “German POW camps, facilities for medical experimentation. Such grisly, horrific treatment of human beings. Far too many souls spent their last time on this earth in such undeserved anguish and agony.”

Erik’s hand fell from the chessboard at the unexpected confession. He searched Charles’ face for any hint of a lie and found none. Pain haunted those crystal blue eyes and Erik felt his throat constrict. He considered mentioning his great-grandparents and grandaunt who died in the Holocaust camp horrors, but their names had been lost with the passing of his grandfather who lived with survivor’s guilt and never spoke of his family. Somehow, Erik didn’t think that would help Charles right now. Especially if he had witnessed anything close to such gut-wrenching horrors.

With a sigh, Charles shook from his solemn contemplation. “Apologies, my friend. Those memories cut deep even all these decades later.” He leaned forward, returning his attention to the board in a deliberate effort to distract himself. “When the war ended, Shaw brought me here for his own, shall we say, _personal_ uses.”

“Against your will?”

“I already told you this place was my prison. But I knew my captor well enough to know how to cater to him – a man of Shaw’s vanity will grasp at any show of adoration from a pretty, young thing.”

Erik’s gut twisted. Suddenly, he was reminded of being 15-years old, of feeling Shaw’s hands on him, of hearing the man whisper low in his ear. His face pinched in disgust. “I’m sorry that you suffered such treatment from him. He -,” Erik’s voice snagged in his throat, realizing he’d never before spoken of his time living under Shaw’s roof, “well, he never much cared what anyone wanted but himself.”

Charles’ gaze was far too shrewd, and Erik instantly knew he’d said far too much. But the last thing he wanted was Charles’ misplaced pity or sympathy. Shaw had wanted Erik to come to him willingly, so the brief touches never advanced beyond just that, but the memories of those hands on him still rotted Erik’s stomach. He didn’t want to imagine the sort of treatment that Charles had endured from those same hands.

Charles shook his head in self-reproach, lips pinching to a thin line. “I imagine that would have been in the early 2000s, then,” he paused for a deep breath, “I can’t help but blame myself for what he did to you - and who knows how many countless others. But, to think, his own nephew…,” he shook his head again, gaze heavy with disbelief, “the man’s depravity truly had no bounds.”

Depravity. Was that what Charles considered homosexuality to be? Perhaps it made sense given the societal attitude to the subject in the 1920s and ‘30s when he was raised, but surely…with time, would that have changed? Then again, with Shaw as his teacher, maybe not.

Erik forced a hard swallow, trying to focus back on the chessboard. This conversation had already crossed lines he didn’t expect, but he couldn’t stop lingering on Charles’ words. “You can’t blame yourself for his actions. It doesn't seem you were given a choice on imprisonment in that glass box."

“But to think that while I was trapped up there, you were trapped down here...”

Erik shook his head dismissively, eager to change the course of the conversation. “It wasn't anything that a well-placed elbow, a stolen motorbike, and a bottle of cheap whisky didn't solve in time.”

Charles’ face lit with surprise, hints of amusement sparking in his gaze. “A stolen motorbike? Goodness, I had no idea I supped with a thief.”

“A one-time only offense, but it formed a lifelong habit.”

“I do hope you’re talking about motorbiking.” Charles licked his lips as he moved his bishop forward. “Though, I never had much skill at it.”

Erik scoffed against the rim of his glass. “You’ve actually ridden a motorbike?”

“It was one of the easier ways to get around France. Though, the sidecars were the worst. You know, I never understood why the powers-that-be decided to name a cocktail after such a horribly uncomfortable form of transportation.”

Erik looked to the chessboard, moving his bishop in retaliation against Charles’ move. This game would be over soon if he wasn’t careful. “It sounds like Shaw kept you well informed on the state of the world over the decades, at least.”

“Again with pandering to his ego – I’m not sure he loved anything as much as the sound of his own voice.”

Erik reached for his martini glass, finding it empty. How had that happened so quickly? Without overthinking it, he rose for a refill. He noticed Charles’ highball was similarly empty. “More tea, vicar?”

Charles’ mouth quirked. “With the way this conversation is going…don’t mind if I do.” He offered the highball up to Erik’s outstretched hand.

He let the motions of mixing another martini and refilling the highball occupy him. A welcome distraction. There were too many tendrils, too many implications to think about. And he still didn’t know what to make of this man out of time. This man whose first reaction upon learning about Erik’s treatment at Shaw’s hand had been to blame himself. This man who had endured so much and yet still managed such a bright smile. Erik struggled to remember the last time he had smiled with such abandon.

But that did raise a thought. “If you don’t mind my asking,” Erik started softly as he threaded more olives on a skewer, “how long were you in that glass box in the attic?”

Charles exhaled audibly, either in disbelief or deep thought. “Oh, it was somewhere around 1980, I think. He, Shaw...he told me that he’d perfected it, finally. The ideal serum. His so-called ‘china doll’ serum. Where he’d previously only achieved stopping the aging process, he had yet to achieve a stable state of stasis.” 

Erik turned from the bar in a mix of horror and incredulity. “Stable state of stasis?” He held out Charles’ highball. “Just what the hell does that mean?” 

Charles took it, meeting Erik’s gaze with a knowing edge. “When you first found me in that glass box, what did I look like?”

Erik forced a suddenly dry swallow. He recalled the sight of Charles - skin pale and perfect, those wide blue eyes unblinking, his body perfectly lax against the glass. All too easily, he knew what his first impression had been. He dropped Charles’ gaze, suddenly uncomfortable as he turned back to the couch. “I thought...I thought you looked not eerily unlike a doll in a display box.” 

“Exactly. When Shaw discovered that he could have his own personal, human toy that he could play with whenever he wanted, a toy that would never age, a toy that he could put away when he was done - that became his biggest obsession. He had almost cracked the formula for eternal youth when I met him, but the stable stasis without a half-life of death took another forty years.” 

Rage simmered under Erik’s skin. “Tell me he didn’t force you to _help_ him perfect the methods of your torture.” 

“He didn’t force me, no.” Charles’ tone wavered as he licked his lips against a stray drop of liquor. “I wasn’t….well. Mr. Quested watched me too closely and foiled too many of my early escape plans - plus, as the years went by, I grew more dependent on the eternal youth serum. With each year that passed, the faster I aged if a dose was delayed. So, instead I worked to my own advantage and did my best to learn from my captor. How better to beat him at his own game?” 

“But…,” Erik struggled to think through the pleasant buzz of his martinis, “then why have you been under since 1980?"

The sudden curl of Charles’ lips had a distinctly diabolical gleam in the firelight. “Just because I worked my imprisonment to my advantage didn't mean that Shaw had me so easily. I fought for every opportunity I had, hoping, eventually...he might find me more trouble than I was worth."

An unbidden chill ran down Erik’s spine despite the warmth of the fire. He took a long pull of his martini. “So, in Shaw’s mind, it became a punishment?” 

“I wanted that man to put me under and leave me under. Time would take care of the rest.” 

“But you survived…?”

In an unconscious gesture, Charles’ free hand drifted to the crook of his right arm protectively. “And I have the scars to prove it.” 

Of course. Erik recalled the heavy puncture scars that dotted the thin skin of Charles’ inner elbow. “So, Shaw just kept…giving you fresh injections as the serum wore off.” 

“Approximately monthly, which fits with your account of how long he’s been deceased.” 

Something about that didn’t sit right with Erik. “Seems odd that Shaw wouldn’t have passed that duty on to Mr. Quested, too. Like so -.” His words suddenly died, struck with the most obvious of realizations. “Shaw served in World War II, yet looked a reasonable age as my Uncle in the early 2000s. You mentioned Mr. Quested was around for the years of iterations - you know, I thought he looked surprisingly young. But if Shaw and Quested were _both_ taking the eternal youth serum...then, why is Shaw dead now?”

Charles met his gaze, a hint of fear bleeding into those blue depths. “That is the million dollar question, my friend.”

Suddenly, Charles’ earlier question - asking if Erik had seen Shaw dead - made sense. Was it...could he still be alive? Was he lurking in hiding with Mr. Quested reporting on Erik’s every movement? Was it deliberately planned for Charles to wake up here and now? All at once, the rooms in the house felt like a giant chessboard, with himself and Charles as unwitting pawns in yet another of Shaw’s twisted games. 

Erik looked back to the crystal chessboard with obvious unease. Remembering it was his move, he surveyed the layout before making a decision. 

“And that’s why you have to let me keep working.” Charles’ voice carried soft as if imparting a great secret. “Obviously, Mr. Quested is well stocked with a supply of serum, but I need my own backlog, enough to sustain a graceful aging over a reasonable lifespan. I have no desire to live forever, but without a supply I won’t last the month, and Shaw’s notes are vague at best.” 

“He didn’t write down his formulas?” 

“Never the full answer. He recognized the power in what he had created, and Shaw was not a man to share power.” Charles’ gaze took a hard, yet imploring edge. “Listen to me very carefully, my friend - I know my course and you _must_ allow me to pursue it. I’ve been as honest with you as I know how, and I won’t let you stand in my way. I _cannot_.” 

Erik held his gaze, hoping he wouldn’t regret his next words. But, really, was there any alternative? “Then, I won’t stop you. It’s yours...for now - the laboratory, that is. You’re on a clock, though. I’m only here for another seven days before I need to report back to work.” 

Charles’ brow wrinkled with surprise. “Seven days until you leave? But not seven days until you decide what to do with this place?” 

“Seven days until I’m done with it,” Erik clarified, reaching for his martini. “I don’t want to return here again. When I return home, I plan to hire a property management representative to oversee the transition. They can dispose of what's left, etc.. I want no part of it.” 

A hint of desperate panic flashed in Charles’ eyes but snuffed out just as quick. “Then, there’s no time to waste.” He raised his highball, taking a long pull. “I appreciate your honesty, Erik. That does help me considerably more than your vague answer yesterday.” 

Erik tipped his head in acknowledgement, finding the compliment awkward. He wasn’t known for his ability to be forthcoming. “The appreciation is mutual, I suppose. I...don’t think I could ever begin to understand the things you’ve seen, but I’m marginally more convinced that you’re not working to poison me in my sleep.” 

“There are far worse elixirs than poison beneath this floor.” 

Nothing in Charles' tone was reassuring. It conjured images of the golem at the end of the upstairs hallway, the human-sized wings in the creepy insect room. Erik's gaze slid over to the crystal woman who presided over their game with cold detachment. 

He didn’t want to know, but found himself asking anyway. “...Is that what happened to her?” 

Charles followed Erik’s gaze as he rose from his chair, tapping a finger against his empty glass. “Shaw’s last mistress, at least that I know of.” Slowly, the shorter man started to move for the door. “When Emma’s love turned to ice, Shaw turned her into ice. The ‘crowning centerpiece’, he called her.” 

Erik quickly turned his eyes away from her. That wasn’t possible...it just _wasn’t._ Right? As if he didn’t already feel out his depth, he now felt like he was drowning - there was just too fucking much to understand in this hell on earth. 

“And if I tell you about Darwin at the end of the upstairs hall, you’ll likely never sleep again.” 

Erik's appetite instantly soured and the thought of finishing his martini nauseated him. Instead, he focused on the abandoned chessboard and the scattering of remaining pieces. “The game’s unfinished.” 

“I would have had you with the next move.” 

Heat suffused Erik’s blood on the silky play of Charles’ words. He turned to face him, taking in the svelte lines of Charles’ body wreathed in firelight. He looked so inviting to touch, to fall into, to taste. But that...that was completely irrelevant. He met Charles’ curiously assessing gaze. “Rematch tomorrow night? Same time?” 

A log in the fireplace popped as the invitation hung in the air. At length, Charles’ face softened and he nodded shortly. “I would like that very much. Goodnight, Erik.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loving all the feedback on this fic - it's pure tonic in these uncertain times. Many continued, heartfelt thanks, y'all.


	6. He certainly looked a dreamboat

All things considered, Erik thought he was handling the situation well. Not that he easily flew off the handle, but it wasn’t every day he found out the maybe/maybe-not dead uncle he despised was a masterful alchemist, responsible for turning human beings into dolls, and transfiguring human flesh into crystal and stone. 

Frankly, it still sounded preposterous even in his own mind. No one back in Stuttgart would believe him if he dared to talk about it. Not that he had any close friends. In fact, ever since the death of his mother and escaping Shaw’s clutches all those years ago, he hadn’t been close with anyone. None of his previous lovers counted as none had lasted more than a week at most. 

But it struck him, as the days continued to pass, that Charles was the first permanent fixture he could remember in decades. The realization should irritate him more, but there were far more pressing matters to occupy his days while Charles toiled in the basement laboratory. 

Perhaps if Erik had planned better - or owned a car instead of a motorbike - he would have brought packing supplies or tools. Of course, he considered taking Shaw’s car into town, but he recalled the words of the nauseating letter all too well. Plus, after seeing the black, hulking monstrosity in the garage, he couldn’t help but draw the comparison to a deadly beast on the road to hell. Not to even mention the presence of Azazel, the chauffeur. Erik didn’t want to explain his errands to buy supplies to dismantle Azazel’s place of employment. 

So, today, he ran through the insect display room, taking a series of photos to email the State Museum of Natural History Stuttgart. If they didn’t have any interest in the collection, he’d reach out to another institution. He purposefully omitted the human-sized wings from the conversation, though. They still raised too many questions. 

Especially after Charles’ ominous line about the golem - Darwin. Admittedly, that did nothing to help Erik sleep better. If Shaw had such powers, then how many other poor souls were permanently trapped here? Was Charles the only lucky one to escape? 

“How marvelous,” Charles gushed in the library that night, turning Erik’s phone over in his hand. “I know of computers, of course - they got man to the moon, they're big enough to occupy entire rooms. But _t_ _his_...as you said, sending photographs through electronic mail over a connection without wires - truly remarkable for this modern age.” 

Almost embarrassed, Erik reclaimed his phone as he settled back against the couch, waiting for Charles to make his next move on the chessboard. “I haven’t heard back from the museum yet, but it seems like they’d be a fool to pass up the collection here.” 

“Potentially.” Charles advanced a knight. “Casual entomology always struck me as a fairly approachable hobby. I would surmise natural history museums probably receive their fair share of calls to adopt pinned insect collections from estate sales or the like.” 

Erik frowned as he sipped his martini. “It wasn’t just a hobby for Shaw, though, was it?”

“Hardly,” Charles agreed, leaning back, firelight catching in his eyes, “it was research. Understanding what value different insects could bring to the table - venoms, paralytic agents, enzymes to foster decomposition. There was always something to learn. In that one, isolated respect alone, I admired Shaw's drive.” 

“You don’t say,” Erik kept his face neutral, a dry tone coloring his words, “you, a professor, admires a devotion to learning.” 

Charles’ mouth pinched with a hint of amusement. “You don’t have any room to talk, you…,” he trailed off, confusion clouding his face, “you know, I don’t know what you do for a living.” 

“It’s nothing glamorous, but I enjoy it.” Erik shifted his bishop to a defensive position. “I work in research & development at Mercedes-Benz motors. Metals, composites, that sort of thing.” 

Charles nodded with an understanding smile as he sipped from his highball. “Very fitting with your love of motorbiking.” He shifted his gaze back to the chessboard as a log in the fireplace popped. 

A comfortable silence lapsed as they sipped and furthered their game. But Erik could tell there was something on Charles’ mind. He’d already asked Charles how the work in the basement progressed, and he wondered what else could be preying on the shorter man’s thoughts. 

At last, Charles glanced up, his face resolved with a decision made. “I don’t want to impose, and please tell me if I overstep a bound - but could...would it be possible to take a photograph on your phone? I don’t want to incur any extra cost for you, or waste film.” 

Erik nearly laughed in spite of himself. “Is that what’s been distracting you? It’s not an imposition - and it doesn’t...gone are the days of needing to buy film. In fact, one can take an almost endless amount of photos without spending money or running out of storage space.” He unlocked his screen, opening the camera app. “Just point and press the gray button in the middle.” 

Charles’ face brightened with excited wonderment as he swept the phone around the room, watching the image shift on screen accordingly. He landed back on Erik with a distracting, playful grin as he pressed the shutter button on the touchscreen. 

Erik fought a roll of his eyes. “I don’t need any photos of me.” 

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.” He rotated the camera in his hand, brows rising as the image shifted vertical. “Simply incredible.” 

Erik heard the shutter button sound from his phone again. Time to move on. “Now, press the button with the two curved arrows at the bottom.” 

A laugh bubbled from Charles as he now saw himself through selfie mode. “If that’s not an example of modern vanity,” he tilted the camera, watching the image move, “why on earth has society evolved the need to take photos of oneself?” 

“They’re called ‘selfies’ - and if you’re by yourself, then you can still take pictures if you’re traveling or at an event. Too many people use them for self aggrandizing purposes, though - taking pictures just to show-off.” 

“But when you’re with someone else…I can take photos of you, and you can take photos of me.” 

“Or you can take photos of yourself. And if we wanted a photo of both of us, we’d need to use selfie mode.” 

Charles’ smile was impossibly infectious as he looked over at Erik. “What a lovely idea.” He rose from his armchair, dropping to sit on the couch next to Erik. “I’ve never been in a photograph with someone before.” 

Erik took a breath to respond, but words failed him as he breathed Charles’ scent - delightful coconut, faint mothball must, and rich peaty scotch. It made him want to bury his nose in Charles’ soft looking hair and just lose himself. But right - Charles was angling Erik’s phone in front of his face, centering them in frame. 

“This feels quite moronic,” Charles admitted softly, tongue sweeping across his lips, “smiling back at myself.” 

“Then, smile at me.” The words left Erik before he could stop them. What a cheesy thing to say. He wasn’t one to blush, but he felt the wave of awkward embarrassment well within him anyway. 

“I do like that idea better.” Charles’ voice held a warm, velvety edge that rippled heat down Erik’s spine. 

On the screen, they sat quite close together, shoulders just brushing as Charles pushed the shutter button. 

Erik told himself that he’d delete those photos later that night. But as he lay in bed, thumbing through them, lingering on the image of him and Charles...he couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

In fact, the image stuck with him. The lift of Charles’ lips, the slope of his neck, the rebellious lock of hair that swept his forehead. It danced in his mind with little else to occupy him as he now scrubbed on the windows outside what he best-guessed to be the mysterious charred room. Without a light source in that room, he’d need all the daylight he could get in order to clear out the destroyed furnishings and assess the true extent of damage. 

After rummaging in the garage, he found a bucket and sponge. They were probably used in service of the monstrous car, but today, they found a new purpose in scrubbing away the black grime that coated the exterior of the manor. 

Sure enough, his elbow grease worked. The water had turned a disgusting grey color after the first rinse, and the sponge would probably retain a permanent black stain. But at least the three windows that looked into the room were mostly free and clear. That should make his next task far simpler. 

With the aid of unfiltered sunlight, he took in the singed and charred extent of the room. Obviously, this room hadn’t been used as anything in quite some time, damaged as it was, yet the room was as pristinely tidy as the rest of the house. But that ended today. Propping open the exterior door that led to the garden, he started to drag the damaged furniture remains out into the daylight. The majority of the half-burned shells were maneuverable by himself, but the bedstead would either require tools or an extra set of hands. 

Perhaps he could ask Charles. Hell, the shorter man could probably lift it single handedly. 

That thought shouldn’t be so arousing. But he couldn’t stop his mind from wondering - what would it be like to be further subjected to Charles’ extreme strength? To surrender to those bright blue eyes and the press of that lean body above him? 

Maybe surrender wasn’t the right word – but submission. Willing submission to such dominating strength.

That sounded much better. So much better that Erik started to harden in his trousers as he leaned against the doorframe of the nearly empty room. He hadn’t taken himself in hand since arriving here, and it wasn’t something he kept track of – it was just a biological need to manage the same as any other. But the more he thought on that infectious smile, those intoxicating eyes and posh dulcet tones…he might have to do something about his pent up arousal or risk an unwanted erection in the library tonight.

Even then, it truly wouldn’t be unwanted. He wanted to know the touch of Charles’ hands. He wanted to know the taste of those lips. Of course, he knew that he shouldn’t. Especially knowing Charles’ treatment at Shaw’s hands. But somehow, that only spoke to the chasm in Erik’s chest. Not that he was an expert, but he wanted to show Charles that it could be good, that it could be fucking mind-blowing, and he wanted to drown in Charles’ unbridled pleasure resulting from his touch. 

God, he needed to do something. Only once he was in the shower did he allow himself some relief. With a soap slick hand, he reached for his cock, going through the perfunctory motions that never failed. But behind closed eyes - there was Charles. The handsome face slack with pleasure, breathy moans against Erik's lips, endless pale skin exposed to Erik's eyes, hands and tongue. It didn't take long before his pleasure burst with sudden fury and he gasped for breath. He'd long since stopped feeling ashamed over the act, but he didn't know how to reconcile his thoughts of Charles as masturbatory fodder. 

Of course, he had no idea if any advances would be received. He remembered Charles’ use of the word ‘depravity’, and perhaps that was how he felt. Erik tried to think how he would feel if he’d been forced into a physical relationship with a man he didn’t want…but ultimately found that line of thinking to be of no value. He couldn’t possibly begin to understand how Charles felt about his experiences.

“Jean Harlow?” Erik frowned, trying to think, pausing over his martini in the library. “Wasn’t she the original blonde bombshell of the silver screen?”

“Now there’s a phrase,” Charles mused as he studied the chessboard, “I remember my mother thought that phrase was downright scandalous.”

“Let me guess, your teenage bedroom wasn’t full of pin-ups, then?”

The tips of Charles’ ears turned the most endearing shade of pink against the firelight. “Not really my preferred style of décor, though, I had plenty of contemporaries at Oxford who enjoyed covering their bulletin boards with such inspiration. I think they each secretly fancied themselves the next Errol Flynn.”

“Well, who wouldn’t?“ Erik leaned over the board, studying the arrangement. It was refreshing night after night to get a challenging game with Charles. Rarely had he found a chess partner that matched his skill.

Charles settled back against his chair, highball in hand. Tonight, he wore a white button down with dark grey trousers and matching vest. The ensemble accented the trim line of his waist and hips, and if Erik hadn't taken care of himself in the shower, he would’ve been tempted to openly stare.

“I always saw myself more as the Cary Grant type, personally.” Charles’ tone was fondly distant, lost in thought. “I remember…seeing ‘Bringing Up Baby’ at the cinema, with Cary Grant’s paleontologist character and thinking it felt a little close to home.”

Erik scrambled to recall any details of that movie. If he’d even seen it. The classic movie channel his mother loved had probably played it, but nothing specific stood out in his mind. At length, he conceded. “Sorry, I don’t remember that one…not sure if I’ve seen it.”

Charles looked up in mock-scandal. “A travesty! It’s a brilliant film, and risqué – at one point, Katharine Hepburn wears a bottomless evening gown, and at another, Cary Grant wears a negligee.”

“And this film was released when?”

“Err, 1938? Maybe 1939?” Charles bit his lip in consideration. “It was the last film I saw before the war started, actually.”

Despite Charles’ words, Erik knew the film couldn’t possibly compare to today’s standards. Even if the main star had cross-dressed for a laugh, it wouldn’t rival the amount of overt sexuality and flesh that dominated cinema screens in 2019. Perhaps someday he could introduce Charles to 21st century cinema and see just how red his ears would flush.

“Come to think of it,” Charles continued softly, “that was the last film I’ve ever seen. Obviously, there were no outings to the cinema here, and Shaw firmly believed in the power of radio – so, there was never even a television. At least, that I saw. Plenty of radio broadcasts and newspapers, though.” He moved his rook to counter Erik’s move. “I do, however, remember being intrigued about what I read – particularly for the Paul Newman and Robert Redford films.”

Oh, Erik knew _those_ names. He vividly remembered his awkward sexual awakening while watching ‘The Long, Hot Summer’ with his mother as he saw Paul Newman swagger his way through the film. That smoldering performance and his blue eyes – coincidence much? – had lingered with him, fueling many feverish adolescent fantasies until ‘Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid’ came into his life. Not even halfway through that film, he had already started entertaining thoughts of his first three-way in a rush of wild teenage hormones. 

“I suspect you would like them,” Erik started softly, unable to meet Charles’ gaze, “especially ‘Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.’”

“That’s a fun title. I…perhaps we could go to the cinema and see it...? Or, it’s probably not showing anymore."

Erik shook his head. “We could watch it on my phone.”

“Somehow calling it a ‘phone’ seems woefully inadequate if your device also has the power to screen motion pictures.”

A smile tugged at Erik’s lips, endeared by Charles’ use of outdated words. “You’re not entirely wrong, but no one’s been clever enough to come up with a new name.” He licked his lips, hesitating over his words. The last thing he wanted was to be offensive, but he just wasn’t delicate with sensitive topics. “Charles, I know it’s no business of mine and you can tell me I've overstepped if you care not to answer…but did you have someone special back in 1940? Or before that?”

Silence followed Erik’s words, broken only by the crackling of the fire, for the longest of minutes. When no immediate rebuke came from his companion, Erik raised his gaze, cautiously taking in Charles’ expression. The shorter man studied him with an equally cautious, hesitant manner, as if debating exactly how to answer. At length, his tongue teased over the rose-tinted lips before he spoke. “You haven’t overstepped, my friend. Far from it, in fact, it’s just a question I’ve never been asked before…but, no, there was no young lady in my life. Too focused on my doctorate and subsequent professorship at the time for anything serious or special.”

“That wasn’t the word I used.” He leveled Charles with as much honesty as he knew how. “Time has changed some things, and society has become more understanding in the last forty years…if you….If you _feel_ a certain way, you don’t have to hide anymore. Should never have had to hide, or be made to feel ashamed. Or wrong, or corrupted, or broken…because it’s not. _You’re_ not. You needn’t live in worry or shame or guilt over who you are. _If_ you feel a certain way, that is.”

The muscles of Charles’ throat visibly worked. “After being forced to share a man’s bed for almost forty years, I wouldn’t call it guilt.” His cheeks flushed a bright red as he paused, biting his lip. “It’s just… _this_ is something that I’ve never…never put into words. I had half-baked illusions…fantasies, I suppose. But never, _never_ …and then, Shaw.” He paused again, drawing a steady breath. “With time, I began to think that…with the right other _someone_...that, well, maybe those feelings could feel…good.”

God, Erik wanted to hug him, to hold him close and chase away every last cloud of doubt and discomfort that haunted him. To prove to Charles that was he was worth everything.

Charles shook his head, suddenly sniffling and raising a thumb to swipe at his cheek. “And, god, now you’re not saying anything – god, I’ve gone and said too much. I’m sorry, I…I didn’t mean –.”

“Charles, stop.” Erik reached a hand across the chessboard to cover Charles’, squeezing with a measure of reassurance. “Stop apologizing. You haven’t said too much – you’ve said the perfect amount, and just the right things.” His heartrate skyrocketed as he drowned in the oceans of Charles’ eyes. “I’m by far the worst person to speak about journeys of personal growth – but you just admitted more to yourself in the last few minutes then my first boyfriend could admit to himself in over thirty years. So, please – don’t ever apologize to me when speaking about this again.”

Recognition and realization sparked in Charles’ gaze, his face softening in gentle surprise at Erik’s admission. It made Erik feel flayed open, more vulnerable than he’d been since his mother died.

Again, he squeezed Charles’ hand, nodding in understanding before releasing it. He leaned back in his chair, suddenly feeling like he could breathe again but not entirely sure that he wanted to. “And for the record,” he added softly, “you’re not wrong. When you find the right someone, sharing those…feelings, can be the best thing in the world.” Not that Erik would say he knew from personal experience, but that’s what the romantic comedies would have everyone believe. He’d never had much hope for himself, personally, but sitting across from Charles now…something sparked in his chest.

Charles sighed deep, as if not sure how to process everything that had just happened. And Erik couldn’t blame him. Charles took a sip from his highball, leaning back in his armchair to mimic Erik’s posture as he spoke. “You used the words ‘my first boyfriend’…. You can actually _say_ it out loud, not just…whispered in back alleys?”

Erik shrugged, unbothered. “I could even have a legally wedded husband, if I ever found the right man.”

“That’s…that’s quite something. A wonderful something…it sounds so freeing, so forward-thinking.” He met Erik’s gaze with unabashed appreciation. “Thank you, Erik, for telling me…for _everything_. You’ll never know just how much it means.”

“Don’t thank me,” something about that didn’t sit well with Erik, “you should…if anything, thank yourself. You’re…taking this whole conversation a lot better than many do.”

Charles hummed, the corner of his mouth ticking up. "But how many of your boyfriends have been 103 years old before?”

The implication of Charles' words hit them both, the shorter man’s eyes widening and startling a laugh from him. Even Erik couldn’t hold back a soft chuckle.

“Oh goodness,” Charles bit his lip, “that…that wasn’t what I meant. I didn’t mean to imply or assume -.”

“No harm done, Charles.”

A comfortable silence lapsed as they each took a drink, sharing glances across the chessboard.

Charles chased a stray drop of scotch with his tongue. “May I ask…if you don’t mind…when did you first know that – well, that you wanted boyfriends instead of girlfriends.”

“The word you’re looking for is 'gay',” Erik gently supplied, “and, honestly, I first started to realize it when I saw my first Paul Newman movie.”

Charles' rich laugh of kindred amusement warmed Erik's heart. “I can’t even imagine! If his picture in the newspapers was anything to go by…he certainly looked like a dreamboat.”

Erik grimaced. "Alright, if this conversation continues, we have got to update your lexicon…no one says ‘dreamboat’ anymore.”

Charles arched a brow, distinctly determined, wickedly teasing, positively _smoldering_. “Oh, by all means,” his voice dropped to a warm purr as his eyes locked to Erik’s, “please do enlighten me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheers, y'all. Many continued thanks for your feedback on this tale!


	7. I won’t change my mind

In hindsight, if Erik hadn’t indulged in the shower, he didn’t think he could have managed the rest of the conversation - hearing Charles echo the modern terms to describe physical attractiveness in those honeyed tones; watching Charles’ face contort with each word as his mind registered and processed the new or updated definition. It had been well past 2 am by the time Erik finally dragged himself off the sofa and they parted with simple, unusually reluctant goodnights.

As much as he wanted to sweep Charles up for a goodnight kiss, Erik recognized the inappropriate timing. After the course of the conversation, he didn’t want to give Charles any wrong impressions or false assumptions. He had no expectations for anything between them – hell, Charles was already the closest friend of Erik’s adulthood.

But as he laid in bed, still trying to fall asleep on past 3 am, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his bed felt too big, too empty. That he wanted to hold Charles’ strong, lean frame in his arms, bury his face in those brown locks, and drift off to sleep on the lulling rhythm of his heartbeat.

His grip slipped, nearly dropping the box on his foot. God, what a sap he’d suddenly become. He’d never waxed poetically in his own mind about anyone before. Yet not even one week after meeting the most extraordinary man out of time with the sharpest mind, the purest blue eyes Erik had ever…he didn’t finish that thought.

He hated how obvious the answer was.

Honestly, he should hate Charles for breaking through the steel cage around his heart. It was easier to keep people at arm’s length and never let his guard down. But Charles had disarmed him right from the start.

He hefted the box onto the floor of the attic, safely away from his toes, using his penknife to cut through the clear packing tape. Another stale wave of mothballs hit his nose as he sifted through yet another box of jumpers. A seemingly random mix of wools, knits, v-necks, cowl necks, solids, patterns, some whole, some ripped forcefully down the middle. This was at least box number six. Did Shaw have some weird jumper collection in addition to insects? Shaking his head in disbelief, he folded the box flaps together and reached for the marker from the desk in the study.

**JUMPERS**

He’d have to remember to ask Charles what he knew about it. Dragging the next box forward, he sliced through the clear tape. His eyes widened, trying to process the contents. A haphazard collection of stark white bones stared back at him – god, was that a _human skull_? He grabbed the edges of the box, shaking the contents with a dry, eerie rattle. Sure enough, the rows of human teeth and eye sockets came into unobstructed view, but now rested next to…the smallest, fine-boned ribcage Erik had ever seen. Not that he’d seen too many ribcages. And was that…a rat’s skull? Or a mouse? And fucking shark teeth?

He quickly folded the box flaps, labeling the box the best he knew how.

**BONES – ASSTD**

He shoved that box into the miscellaneous group. He knew better than to ask, but it was too late to stop the errant thought – how much weirder was this going to get?

“Porcelain teacups and saucers, Charles,” Erik lamented later over the chessboard, “three boxes of various sets and patterns – curiously, every set had an odd number.”

Charles hummed thoughtfully. “Probably all the bone china.” He studied the board, making his move. “You did say there was also a box of assorted bones, did you not?”

“Bone china…made with real bones? What, was Shaw also a spare porcelain maker?”

“Goodness, no. The basic composition of bone china has its benefits – kaolin is particularly versatile.” He paused for a drink. “As I recall, it was a failed line of experimentation – but the theory postulated that the same process used to preserve bleached bone ash in the porcelain could be applied in non-porcelain applications to living bone, if you will.”

“In order to preserve living bone?”

“Precisely – a literal porcelain doll.”

Erik’s stomach soured, but he refused to let it ruin his excellent martini. “And the boxes of jumpers? All eight of them? Surely that explanation isn’t so sinister.”

Charles lifted a shoulder with a slight upturn of his lips, “Depends on your definition of sinister.” He leaned forward to make his move.

“Well, you can’t leave me hanging with just _that_ ….”

Charles leaned back, shifting in his chair to cross one leg over the other. “Shaw had a certain, preferred aesthetic for my appearance. He leaned heavily into my former profession, deluding himself into believing that professors only wear jumpers year-round.”

Erik froze on Charles’ words, hands hovering over the board as he recalled the boxes’ contents, stomach sinking with dread. “So, the jumpers ripped down the middle….”

Charles’ eyebrows rose in feigned shock as his lips pinched to a thin, embarrassed line. “I’m sure you can use your salacious imagination and you wouldn’t be wrong."

Erik didn’t want to. But that didn’t stop the image in his mind of Shaw using his eternal youth serum-induced strength to tear a jumper from Charles’ torso, exposing swaths of pale skin. His hand clenched at his side as he glanced back up at Charles. “I’m sorry I asked.”

“No need to apologize, my friend.”

Erik wanted to drown in the warm reassurance of Charles’ gentle smile. Curiously enough, he noticed that Charles wore a cowl neck navy jumper over a light blue collared shirt. “It’s interesting that you still wear jumpers, willingly. If I’d experienced even…a fraction of what you have, I wouldn’t ever wear another jumper, no matter how cold.”

Charles chuckled softly. “That doesn’t surprise me one bit. You do strike me as the type to never forget.” Firelight glittered in his crystalline eyes. “But I value my comfort more than the lingering ghost of memory – especially when I have such engaging company to distract my mind, and nothing satisfying to detract from the persistent chill of this place.”

Was that a come-on? Suddenly, Erik dearly hoped it was. He’d gladly keep Charles both distracted _and_ warm. Unfortunately, the enigmatic lift of Charles’ lips brought him no clarity. He looked back to the chessboard, moving an obsidian pawn. “Do you care what I do with the boxes of jumpers?”

“I suppose you could dispose of them, or try to sell them,” Charles shifted to lean back over the board, observing Erik’s play. “Actually, I could use them in the laboratory – it’ll be more satisfying to see them burn.”

“What…are you running short of firewood?”

“Hardly.”

“So, some form of therapeutic revenge?”

“While I do appreciate the poetry of that phrase, revenge is not the path to peace.”

“No…,” Erik admitted, eyes scanning around the room, envisioning the sprawling manor beyond and everything it stood for, “peace was never an option.”

Charles’ answering expression softened with hints of regret and frustration. “You’re still leaving for home in a couple of days, yes?”

God, Erik had nearly forgotten. He’d become so used to his days working around the house and fireside nights with Charles. It felt like a routine he could fall into for the rest of his life, minus this disturbing manor as the setting. He forced a hard swallow. “Yeah, on Sunday.”

Charles nodded slowly. “I understand why you have to go – your job is important, of course. But...I need more time. The proper dosage of the pig enzyme is far trickier than Shaw’s notes indicate, and I haven’t…,” he broke off with a frustrated shake of his head, nibbling his bottom lip, “if I only _remembered_ ….it has to be heated before clarification, surely. Otherwise, you wouldn’t get the separation that induces bonding. And without bonding, the primary amino groups will overreact to the formaldehyde.” He stopped suddenly, face pinching with confusion as a small, awkward smile tilted his mouth. “…why are you looking at me like that? Am I talking too much?”

Erik knew he wore the lopsided smile that his mother was so fond of, and he just hoped he didn’t look too lovestruck. Either way, he wasn’t sure he could help it. “Not at all. You…you sound just like a professor.” _And I love it_. 

Charles raised a dubious brow. “That’s a horrible compliment. You might as well say I sound bald and boring.” 

“Stop being so dramatic. Or is that a side effect of the formaldehyde?” The thought made Erik pause over his martini glass. “But, formaldehyde...?”

“It’s a powerful preservative.” 

“Sure...for corpses.” 

Charles’ gaze narrowed playfully, matched by the curve of his lips. “Well, am I not technically one of the living dead?” 

“You’re not a zombie, Charles.” 

“By definition a zombie is merely a corpse revived by witchcraft or other supernatural methods. One could argue that includes alchemy, but technically, I have never been dead...it’s certainly a debatable point that I hadn’t previously considered.” 

“It's not debatable. You look nothing like a zombie.” 

“Oh, and you’re an authority on the subject?” 

“Only what the movies tell me.” 

“Then, despite my looks, aren’t you worried that I’ll eat you?” Charles’ tone dropped to an obvious tease, the lift of his mischievous eyebrow a deliberate challenge. 

Erik’s heart started to race, holding Charles’ gaze, unable to back down this time. “Maybe I want to be eaten.” 

Charles’ face cracked with unexpected relief for the briefest second - just enough to let Erik know that his advance wasn’t unwelcome. That maybe...just maybe, Charles might want him just as much. It was too much to hope for. But as Erik held Charles’ gaze, a silent recognition and understanding passed between them. 

Suddenly, the library air felt heavy, charged with too much static to breathe. A chasm of potential spanned the chessboard and Erik reigned in every impulse to vault over the table, delicate glass and crystal be damned. But instead, he gripped his martini glass harder, keeping himself rooted to the white leather. He wouldn't push things. Not after Charles’ past experiences. 

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Charles broke their heated gaze. His mouth ticked up with an almost private smile as he surveyed the remnants of the game between them. “You know, I’ve quite lost track of whose move it was.” 

“I’ll gladly go again.” Erik reached out, moving his bishop on the offensive before Charles could respond. Anything to get an advantage, really. Of the two of them, Charles did hold the winning record so far. 

“Hmm, I’ll let you have that this time. Rather serves me right.” Charles moved his queen within striking distance.

Erik smirked as he shifted his knight beautifully into place. “Checkmate.” 

“Well played,” Charles raised his highball in salute, “someday, you might even come close to matching my record.” 

“I’m not sure tonight was the fairest of victories.” A sudden yawn hinged Erik’s jaw and he reached up to cover it. “But another would be reckless - we, uh, we were up a little last night. Or, more accurately, this morning.” 

“And I don’t regret a minute of it.” Charles rose from his chair as Erik stood, leaving their empty glasses on the table as they always did. And every evening, the glasses appeared in the bar, clean and pristine as they always did. 

Erik crossed around the couch to stand in front of the fire for a minute, basking in the warmth from the glowing embers. His own bedroom wouldn’t be nearly so warm. He looked up from the smoldering remains to find Charles suddenly so _close_. Standing just in front of him, close enough to touch that Erik’s heart leapt into his throat. Those mesmerizing eyes searched his in silent contemplation with heart-wrenching determination. Every impulse in Erik screamed to take that last step forward, to finally learn the feel and taste of Charles' kiss.

A sigh punched from him as Charles leaned up and in, brushing Erik’s cheek with the tip of his fire-warmed nose. Erik’s eyes sank closed as he inhaled the familiar, heady blend that was his Charles. His heart pounded so loud as they stood there relishing the simple, single point of contact - it wouldn’t surprise him if Charles could hear it. 

An eternity passed - or perhaps just a minute. Maybe less. Erik’s body burned with the need for more, for _everything_ , but he held himself achingly still. As Charles skimmed his nose down Erik’s cheek, lips hovering over Erik’s with hot, shallow, trembling breaths - Erik’s restraint crumbled. He brushed his lips against Charles’ in nothing more than a light whisper. A last chance to retreat. But Charles matched him, tilting further in to find Erik’s mouth again, lingering with firm pressure and full contact. Erik's toes curled as they kissed and kissed, each touch growing bold, more sure. 

Long simmering attraction burst into runaway flames as their lips parted to share gasping breaths, neither wanting to withdraw. Charles’ tongue teased the open line of Erik’s kiss-swollen lips, and Erik couldn’t deny him. He groaned low in his throat, exploring the heat of Charles’ mouth and lingering taste of scotch on his tongue. An answering moan rumbled from Charles, igniting liquid fire in Erik's veins. _Fuck_ , just how would Charles sound blissed out on the touch of Erik’s mouth around his cock? 

Another groan reverberated in Erik's chest as strong hands gripped his waist, drawing him in. His arms wrapped around Charles’ shoulders just as quick, abandoning himself to kisses deep and wet and _perfect_. The solid feel and hard strength of Charles’ body lit him on fire, pulsing with fuckyeswantneed _Charles_. And when Charles’ hips rocked forward, pressing the undeniable ridge of his hard arousal to Erik’s hip - his body responded to the natural impulse. 

Pressed together from mouths to thighs, there was no part of Charles that Erik didn’t want to devour. To sweep into his arms or into his bed. His breath hitched as Charles guided his hips into better alignment. At the first brush of Charles’ cock to his, Erik tore from his lips away with a strangled groan. 

“Charles…,” his chest heaved as if he’d run kilometers, “we should...shouldn’t...tonight.” 

Charles whimpered against him. “No...? Oh, Erik, _please._ I _want_ you.”

The desperate plea nearly broke him, biting his swollen lip to the point of pain to find some clarity through the fog of arousal. “I don’t want to rush anything. Or do anything you’d regret.” 

“Do you trust me to make my own decisions?” Charles pulled back just enough to let Erik stare into his dark, desire-blown eyes. 

Erik’s body screamed at him to take, to give, to just fucking say _yes_ . Instead, he rested his forehead to Charles’, letting their noses touch. “Yes, I do. But I don’t trust myself.” _Don’t trust myself not to fall completely in love with you._

“You doubt yourself far too much.” Charles angled in for a chaste, reassuring kiss. 

Erik’s mouth pulled to an unbidden smile through the kiss. “You already know me far too well. Besides, this is only our first date.” 

“Neither one of us are hardly innocents, darling.” 

_Darling_. Erik groaned, meeting Charles’ lips in another kiss that burned with a frisson of unbridled hunger. “You are making this so damn hard.” 

Charles chuckled low and delicious as his hands brought their hips together in a deliberate, slow grind. “Mm, don’t I know it.” 

With the last strength of will, Erik pulled out of Charles’ embrace, enfolding those strong hands in his his, dropping featherlight kisses along the knuckles. “Tomorrow,” he promised softly, “we’ll meet here as we always do - and if you haven’t changed your mind, we’ll go to your bed and I’m yours.” 

“I won’t change my mind.” 

Erik placed another kiss to Charles’ knuckles. “Then, I can at least have my delusion of allowing you the chance to back out.” 

Sleep that night didn’t come without a cold shower, and several hours of tossing and turning. Erik couldn’t decide if he did them a favor, allowing the tension to build for an additional twenty-four hours; or, if love had just utterly unmanned him into making the biggest mistake of his life. 

Love. 

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks & cheers for reading! Hope everyone is staying safe and healthy with rapidly escalating virus case counts.


	8. Stop talking

Erik didn’t want to get up. The late nights in the library, followed by his endless mental acrobatics in bed, had caught up to him and he wasn’t as young as he used to be. But he was never one to loaf around in bed, especially when there was work to do. And especially when he determinedly, resolutely didn’t want to think about the promise of what tonight would bring. It would just be beyond mortifying if he’d spent the whole day so worked up in excited anticipation that he shot off early and ruined the night.

But, first things first. It had been an easy decision to make around 3 am, and he reached for his phone, dialing his boss’ number. Yes, he was alright. Yes, things were going well. He would just need another week of leave to sort out his uncle’s estate. Yes, he really was fine. Thank you and goodbye.

He’d always hated making phone calls. In person, it was easier to walk away if someone wanted to engage in small talk. But his mother had raised him too well to just hang-up on someone mid-sentence. Especially the man who determined the future of Erik’s employment.

He couldn’t wait to tell Charles. His lips curled with an unbidden smile as he imagined the overjoyed look on the shorter man’s face at learning they had an extra week together. Even if this place was the closest physical manifestation of hell that Erik knew of, complete with demons galore – he’d endure it for more time in Charles’ company as he worked for the serum that would sustain him.

Erik just hoped an extra week would be enough.

Fortunately, the museum had finally emailed him back. Erik braced for rejection, but surprisingly, they were interested in the insect collection. If Erik could supply an address, the museum would send crates suitable for shipment. He almost couldn’t believe his luck. He fired off an immediate reply, hoping the location wasn’t too remote or too far away.

With the burn of black coffee drowning out the aftertaste of porridge and kippers, he pushed open the door to the insect room. Thunder rumbled, low and distant, outside the window, drawing his glare as he really didn’t need any additional, spooky atmosphere to add to the already disconcerting room. The bright gallery lights helped some, but he still couldn’t shake the creeping sensation along the back of his neck as he started to take down the display frames.

Sure, winged insects were prolific on the planet, but god, why did Shaw have to have so many? _How_ did he get so many? None of these looked native to Germany, yet they had all come here to suffer Shaw's treatment. Erik stared down at the large, black beetle under glass, its wings spread wide and mandibles forever immobilized. A shudder ran down his spine. God, the room was suddenly too quiet – and no, the rain and thunder outside did _not_ count.

At least, by the time he went to sleep tonight, he would have significantly more pleasant memories to focus on.

_Should_ have, anyway.

He hated himself in equal measure for hoping that Charles would and _wouldn’t_ change his mind. He wanted to be a gentleman and take the right steps – it just felt like the right thing to do. Not that he had a long-standing history of doing the right thing. But…he wanted Charles to understand that he was special, worthy, and deserving. That he wasn’t just the nearest warm body. That he wasn’t just something to use and leave behind.

That, instead, he was…everything.

When he finally closed the door to the insect room behind him, with every last display frame piled and grouped for boxing, he couldn’t help but feel relieved. The air in the hallway hung heavy with moisture from the rain, bringing a faint mildew smell to life, along with a pervasive chill that bit at his skin.

He stepped over to the exterior door, glancing out at the rain-soaked landscape. The garden's dead flora swayed under the force of the driving rain, looking even more lifeless in the lightning's eerie glow. Yellow light shone from the upper window of the garage, uncannily reminding Erik of a lighthouse on a storm-battered shore. He hadn't explored the upper reaches of the garage - it was likely the servants' quarters where Quested and Azazel lived. If it was indeed their apartments, then that's surely where the clues would be. But would they tell him? Would they tell him if Shaw still lived? Would Quested reveal his stash of eternal youth serum? Would he share it with Charles...? Erik scowled at the beam of yellow light as thunder rattled the window pane and another chilled shiver pricked along his skin. 

Turning from the door, he headed for the study. Quite curiously, a tea service had always appeared on the study's desk at a late afternoon hour but Erik had never bothered to indulge. Somehow, he couldn’t see Shaw being bothered to pause his pursuits for something as trivial as afternoon tea. Distantly he wondered if that was something Shaw had requested on Charles’ behalf, but that didn’t make sense either.

Today, however, with storms pelting the manor, a damp chill in the air, and images of countless winged insects haunting Erik's thoughts – a cup of tea sounded unashamedly comforting.

He rounded the doorframe to the study, finding the air significantly warmer from the roaring fire in the hearth. The golden glow played off the glass and brass items on the desktop, including the polished silver tea service. With a cup of steaming tea in hand, Erik stood by the fireplace, letting the heat soak through his clothes and warm his skin.

Absently, he wondered if there was a fireplace in Charles’ bedroom. It would be a far more enjoyable experience if they could explore each other without worrying about warding off the nightly chill. The last thing he wanted was for any part of Charles to stay clothed or obscured by bed covers - not when he wanted to map out the far reaches of freckles on such creamy skin. Heat simmered low in his groin with the promise of such sweet discoveries so close at hand.

Movement caught in the corner of his eye and he turned towards the entry hall. He nearly dropped his teacup at the sight, face hardening with concern. “Charles? Wha–"

“Stop talking. Please.” Blood trickled from a number of shallow cuts on Charles’ forehead and cheeks around a distinct outline of goggles rimmed in black soot. His hair was blown in askew angles, coated in the same dark powder. Now that Erik looked closer, there also appeared to be some small cuts on Charles’ neck, blood mixing with soot in a gruesome tableau. His face was drawn-in with furious frustration that made Erik’s heart ache.

Slowly, Charles shook his head, jaw tense. “I don’t want your concern. I don’t want your pity. And I certainly don’t need any coddling or words of encouragement. I just…I need to _think_.” He sighed deep, practically vibrating with exasperation. “It was a novice mistake that should never have happened, can never happen again, and _will_ never happen again.” A hand raked through his hair, knocking a few glass shards loose to the carpet. “I didn’t want you to see me like this. Had hoped I wouldn’t see you just yet.”

Erik’s heart and mind raced as he stared back. As best he could figure, it looked like some glassware had exploded – well, if not _in_ Charles’ face, then close to his face. Thank god for the ridiculous goggles that Charles wore. Erik didn’t want to think about Charles losing one of his beautiful eyes. “Charles, I’m sorry that –"

“I said _stop_. _Talking_.” The hard, commanding edge on Charles’ voice aroused memories of that first morning in the laboratory and would probably have stirred other parts of Erik’s anatomy if not for Charles’ downtrodden physical appearance. “If anything, it should be me apologizing…this whole day has been one, big bloody failure. A wretched waste that I cannot undo.” He paused, nibbling on his lip as if just reaching a decision. “I’m sorry, Erik – I won’t be able to keep our usual library rendezvous, but I have _not_ changed my mind. I just…need time to reorganize and assess for tomorrow, and..,” he gestured weakly at himself, “need to clean up the mess. But I know where to find you later, and I will.”

Erik wanted to say so many things – to reassure, to comfort, to dissuade, to diffuse – but he held his tongue. He didn’t want to risk Charles’ genuine ire by trying to force anything that the man didn’t want. Instead, he nodded his head with a slow and steady movement, but never let his gaze stray from Charles’.

“Thank you. And, later, I’ll answer your questions, I’ll tell you anything you want to know, but right now…,” his eyes glistened with unshed, frustrated tears, “it’s just too fucking _raw_.”

Erik nodded again, outwardly silent while everything within him screamed to damn Charles’ words and wrap the shorter man in a tight embrace. But while anger and exasperation clearly ate at Charles, he still held his shoulders strong and square, beaten but not defeated. It was something Erik recognized and respected, a strength that went beyond anything physical. He didn’t think it was possible to love Charles anymore than he already did…but, apparently, he was wrong.

Charles walked off without another word, disappearing further down the entry hall and up the grand staircase. Erik strained his ears to listen for any creaking of the floorboards, the closing of a door latch. But only the roaring fire kept him company.

He glared down at the tea in distaste. This was exactly why he rarely broke from routine. Change was always guaranteed to upset something…or someone.

Abandoning the tea to cool on the tray, he retreated to his bedroom. A warm shower should do just as well in lieu of the fire. A yawn hinged his jaw as he stepped into the ridiculous clawfoot tub in the middle of the bathroom, drawing the curtain around him. Perhaps he’d seek out coffee in the kitchen afterwards. The last thing he wanted to do was fall asleep too early tonight. Or, perhaps instead, he’d take a power nap.

That sounded like a better option.

With his skin flushed and shower-warmed, dressed in sleep shorts and a loose t-shirt, he relaxed against his bed covers. Twenty or thirty minutes should do it. An hour, at most. He set an alarm on his phone and closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of rain and not the creeping, crawling images of lifeless insects.

Or his lingering concern for the man down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheers to everyone reading - happy weekend! Thanks for your continued support with this tale!


	9. Do your worst, darling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, that E rating...here we go...  
> Also, please note no offense intended with the use of an older, colloquial, in-context term in this chapter.  
> Also also, all credit to the original artists for the song lyrics.

Erik jolted awake, throwing off the bedcovers with a startled gasp. Another loud crack of thunder assaulted his ears as brilliant lightning burned his eyes and rain lashed the windows in the howling wind. He shook his head, regaining his bearings. Normally, he slept like a rock through thunderstorms, but then again, nothing had been normal since arriving at Hellfire Manor.

Realization slammed through him. Oh _fuck._ What time was it? He scrambled for his phone, dismayed as 22:04 stared back at him. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he investigated the failed alarm only to discover that he hadn’t set the date correctly. Of course.

He threw his head back on the pillow, sighing deep. Had he completely missed Charles? What on earth would Charles have thought to find Erik already asleep if he had indeed knocked? The fact that he’d missed dinner registered as a distant afterthought as his mind spun. Another peal of thunder shook his bedroom, window panes rattling in their frames. And yet over the storm’s raging fury, he could also hear something else. It was music – faint and even familiar. He lifted his head from the pillow, straining to listen. Was that…that wasn’t the Righteous Brothers, was it?

Erik rose from the bed with a confused frown. The music sounded louder near the ornate brass heating vent low on the wall. He knelt down and put his ear near the cool metal, listening over the roar of the storm.

**I need your love** **  
****I need your love** **  
****Godspeed your love to me**

His rational mind knew it could only be Charles. But since when and where did he get a radio?

At least, Charles was still awake. Erik knew he had at least one apology to make; probably even two if he did indeed disturb Charles uninvited. Lightning lit the hallway with a disorienting, strobing effect as he left his bedroom and resolutely ignored Darwin. He didn’t need the image of those lightning-lit red eyes to add to his stash of nightmare fuel from this house.

The entry hall below looked dark and still, with no light shining out from the connecting rooms. Turning his gaze towards Charles' bedroom, he stopped short. Warm, golden light spilled from the door’s edges, and for the first time ever – it was open. Erik stared at the thin line of light that ran the length of the door, slicing through the dark of the hallway.

He forced a hard swallow. That couldn’t be an accident. But was it really...an _invitation?_

Anticipation simmered under his skin as he approached and pushed the door slowly open. A cursory glance around the room revealed the bed empty, but unmade, and no immediate sign of Charles. The music had resumed now, filtering out from the partially closed door to the en suite. With his heart in his throat, his feet carried him to the open door.

And the sight stole his breath.

A radio from at least 50 years ago sat on a chair near the clawfoot bath in the middle of the room. It was full of sudsy, opaque water, cradling Charles’ lounging figure with the porcelain edge cutting along his shoulder blades as his back faced the door. As if drawn by Erik’s presence, Charles turned his head, bringing his handsome profile into perfect view. Damp strands of hair hung loose over his forehead, the abrasions from earlier now just dark spots against his pale skin as he held a cigarette between his lips, quirking his mouth to exhale a cloud of white smoke.

Erik had never hardened so fast in his life, dizzy with the southward rush of blood.

Charles lifted a hand from the bath’s edge to pluck the cigarette from his mouth. “A gentleman would have the decency to knock first.”

Erik struggled for words against his mouth gone dry. “A gentleman wouldn’t have left the doors open.”

Charles’ mouth curved with playful, wicked temptation.

And Erik fucking _wanted._

**But I do know that I love you** **  
****And I know that if you love me too** **  
****What a wonderful world this would be**

The cigarette returned to Charles’ lips for a long inhale as a particularly loud crack of thunder shook the manor. Erik blinked, forcing himself to think beyond his blinding arousal and the fire in his belly. He tried to keep his eyes from roaming over Charles’ exposed skin, failing miserably. “If you came to my room earlier, I’m sorry I was asleep…set the wrong damn alarm for what was supposed to be a thirty-minute nap.”

“With this howling gale, I’m amazed you managed any sleep at all. But you did look tired, and I couldn’t bring myself to wake you. After all, it wouldn’t do either of us any good if you fell asleep on the job.”

Erik swallowed hard, watching those ruby-tinted lips purse around the cigarette. Twin smoke plumes shot out Charles’ nose and Erik groaned low in his throat, cock straining unbearably. “Are you _trying_ to kill me?”

“Can’t let you off too easy for almost standing me up.”

A thread of self-restraint snapped and Erik moved for the bath. Dropping to his knees, he breathed deep the scents of soap and tobacco, and something new…something uniquely Charles. He lowered his head to nuzzle the damp, creamy skin of Charles' shoulder, the smooth line of his jaw.

But the shorter man pulled away, water sloshing in lazy waves as he turned to fully face Erik. Up close, those crystalline eyes burned with azure fire, pupils wide and dark. Droplets of water clung to the skin around the tantalizing shape of his mouth that still held the cigarette. Erik had never wanted to kiss anyone more – to taste the smoke on his tongue, to chase the moisture on his skin.

Charles arched a challenging brow as he quirked his mouth to speak. “Do you remember what I told you that very first morning? When you touched me in the laboratory…?”

Erik scrambled to recall that moment despite the lack of blood in his brain.

**At first I thought it was infatuation** **  
****But ooo, it’s lasted soo long** **  
****Now I find myself wanting you** **  
****To marry you and take you home**

With sudden clarity and a frustrated growl, Erik remembered Charles’ words. “You…you told me not to touch you uninvited.” 

Charles purred a delicious, pleased sound. “Quite correct.” 

Erik groaned again, fist clenching at his side as his hips jerked with instinctive need. It didn’t help that Charles’ arm still rested along the bath’s edge just in front of him, so so _close_. Close enough to press his lips against, to taste. He fixed Charles with a hard, needy stare. “Tell me what you want, Charles.”

“To finish my bath for starters,” Charles’ words deformed around the cigarette with a deliberate tease, “would you like to help?”

Erik bit his lip, unsure which would happen first - his heart beating out of his chest or coming untouched in his sleep shorts just keeling beside the bath. “Yes, Charl…err,” he paused blinking, “god, if we’re doing this in this way, we need to have a full and serious conversation – but for now…is there anything you’d like me to call you?” 

The question seemed to take Charles by surprise, but his face brightened with unrestrained affection. “Oh, darling, that’s so lovely of you. And unnecessary – you can call me anything you like except any variation of ‘baby’ or ‘doll’, and that most certainly includes ‘baby boy’ and ‘baby doll’.”

Erik didn’t need to ask any further. Those sounded like just the kind of pet names that Shaw would overbearingly bestow and use to demean. “Of course. I understand.” 

Charles smiled, satisfied as he straightened out against the porcelain. Taking the cigarette in his left hand, he slipped his right off the edge of the bath, pointing down at the bottles of shampoo and conditioner that rested on the floor. Holding his left hand high, he dipped beneath the slosh of opaque water as Erik reached for the shampoo.

Squeezing a measure into his hands – that explained the coconut scent – he tentatively reached forward for Charles’ dripping locks. The soft brown waves slid through Erik’s fingers as he worked up a lather, lightly massaging his scalp. “I’m glad to see your mood improved.”

“I’m still sorry that you saw me earlier. Failure is…just intolerable.”

“You don’t need to tell me anymore if you don’t want to.”

The cigarette perched against Charles’ lips. “No, I do owe you an explanation – it was a hydrogen explosion.”

Erik’s hands stilled, eyes widening. He fought to keep his tone non-accusatory. “And what the hell are you doing with hydrogen?”

“It’s a byproduct of potassium and water reacting, and with all the extra moisture in the air from the rain…well, there was more water than I accounted for in the reaction.”

Erik resumed his gentle motions. “Thank you for telling me.” His fingers toyed with the hair on Charles’ nape, pressing in to caress the tense muscles. A low moan issued from Charles as he pressed the cigarette back to his lips. Emboldened, Erik let his slick fingers drift to Charles’ shoulders, leveraging his thumbs to massage the tight line of muscle. Charles moaned, a filthy sound that spoke right to Erik’s aching erection, as he exhaled a steady stream of smoke.

Erik couldn’t resist a proud smirk as he leaned in close. “I’m surprised that you smoke.”

“Mm, I don’t. Not really, anyway. But it’s comforting.”

“And Shaw approved?”

“Goodness, no. Not for his ‘perfect doll’. But they were easy to nick from Azazel.” 

Erik shook his head, heart bursting with all-consuming affection as he slid his hands down to the water, knocking the lather loose. “You’re something else, you know that.”

**I want to tell you how much I love you** **  
****Come with me** **  
****To the sea** **  
****Of love**

Erik returned his hands to Charles’ hair, bringing handfuls of water to rinse out the shampoo. Charles leaned into the touches, chuckling with an edge of incredulity as he spoke. “You needn’t flatter me, darling. You’ve already got me undressed and pliable.”

As much as Erik couldn’t deny the truth of that – the truth that his body urged him to just fucking take and _touch_ – he couldn’t bring himself to cheapen the sentiment. “It’s more than that…,” he said softly, focusing on the smooth glide of Charles’ wet hair through his fingers, “after all that you’ve seen…all that you’ve been through – any other person would let it consume them in bitter anger, hatred – defeat, even. But you’re still fighting…you never stopped.”

Charles stilled for the space of a breath before he pulled back his cigarette, slipping from Erik’s hands to duck down beneath the water’s surface, shaking his head to clear the rest of the shampoo suds.

Shit. Had Erik said too much? Had he pushed Charles too far? But as he reached for the conditioner, he realized that he didn’t care – Charles needed to know that this wasn’t purely physical attraction. That Erik wouldn’t just abandon him with the dawn.

When Charles resurfaced, Erik combed the excess moisture free before adding conditioner. He’d never considered himself someone who got too much pleasure from tactile sensation alone, but the silky slide of Charles’ hair through his fingers fueled the fire still burning in his blood.

“Don’t think that I didn’t consider it.” Charles spoke softly, taking another drag. “In the early days when…when things were unbearably dark and seemingly hopeless. It would have been easy…but that meant Shaw would have won. And that thought was even more unbearable. So, I started paying attention. I learned and...well, knowledge is power.”

Erik teased the soft locks into lazy sweeps and curls. “And for a biology professor who talks more like a master chemist…I don’t doubt the power of your mind. And you shouldn’t either, even after a day like today.”

“Hence, the fag.” He hefted the cigarette for emphasis.

“And the oldies music?”

“'Oldies music'?” Charles’ words dripped with obvious distaste as his face fell slack with indignation. “That’s a terrible phrase – this is Phil Phillips and the Twilights, for goodness’ sake.”

Erik chuckled as he raised a handful of water. “Circa 1950-something, sounds like.”

“And I don’t think music has improved with time.”

“I look forward to proving you wrong.”

“Do your worst, darling.”

It was a delicious thought, but a thorough musical education would have to wait as there was just too much temptation right under his fingertips. Anchoring his fingers in Charles’ hair, he gave an experimental tug, rewarded with the most wanton, debauched groan. Again, Erik pulled on those luscious locks and the fingers of Charles’ free hand tightened around the edge of the bath with another raw, serrated sound. 

Enough was enough. Surely, his touch was invited by now – and if not, he would willingly beg for something, anything, _everything._ Erik pressed closer, feeling the wet skin of Charles’ shoulder soak the front of the shirt. Charles turned on the same instinct, sealing his mouth to Erik’s.

A desperately needy moan pitched high in Erik’s throat as he drank in everything Charles offered. The endless kiss burned with tender hunger, deep wells of unspoken affection, and fina _f_ _ucking_ ly relief. Erik couldn’t get enough of Charles’ taste, chasing smoke and distant mint on his tongue. He curled his fingers tighter in Charles’ hair, opening him further to deepen the contact. Charles surged against the kiss, his moan vibrating Erik’s lips.

Erik responded with a low growl. “Fuck, I want you out of this bath.”

“God, yes.” Charles’ mouth pressed back to his and Erik fought the urge to submit, to lose himself. But the longer Charles lingered here was all the longer it would be before he could have Charles above him in bed.

He slowed the kiss, inhaling sharply, almost pained as their lips parted. Charles’ tongue darted forward for a teasing, kitten lick before he dislodged Erik’s hands from his hair. Again, he dipped beneath the surface for a final rinse as Erik reached for the fluffy towel that rested near the chirping radio.

**You are here** **  
****And so am I** **  
****Maybe millions of people pass by** **  
****But they all disappear from view** **  
****And I only have eyes for you**

With a rush of water and steady dripping, Erik turned back to the bath, forgetting how to breathe as he stared up. Charles stood at his full height, displaying endless expanses of pale, dripping skin. God, he looked absolutely edible, his smooth planes and lean contours just begging to be traced by Erik’s tongue. He wanted to mark that skin with his teeth, his fingers – let everyone know that Charles chose _him_. And, of course, that was all to say nothing of the perfect, pert swell of Charles’ backside.

In a moment of absurdity, it hit Erik that Charles looked damn delicious for 103 years old.

With a sly glance over his shoulder, as if reading Erik’s mind, Charles smirked. “Towel, if you don’t mind?” He dropped the smoking remains of the cigarette into the bathwater as Erik handed it over.

“Just so you know, I do mind.” Erik let his gaze roam over Charles again in open appreciation. “You are stunning.”

Charles scoffed, low and rumbling. “You’re one to talk – if only you could see yourself right now, darling.” He slung the towel around his shoulders, reaching a corner up to his dripping hair and wiping his face. He rotated to face the bathmat along the bath’s edge, and Erik’s eyes drew immediately to the prominent jut of Charles’ heavy, thick arousal. 

His mouth watered at the sight, overwhelmed with urgent need. Hell, his knees would already be unforgiving in the morning. Why not make it completely worth his while? Would Charles let him?

He raised his gaze to Charles’ with the unspoken question, nearly undone as recognition dawned. Charles pinched his bottom lip between teeth, breathing heavy as his eyes burned, so dark and hungry. “God, yes – _please_ , Erik.”

He didn’t hesitate, shuffling over and swallowing Charles as deep as he could go. The answering cry that punched from Charles nearly tipped Erik over the edge as he relished Charles’ shape and heat. With a few tries, he found the right rhythm and stroke of his tongue to make Charles’ breath hitch and his hips jerk forward to chase more of Erik’s mouth. It was everything Erik had wanted.

“Stop, stop… _Erik_.” Charles’ words were heavy and breathy, fingers imploring in Erik’s hair as he reluctantly pulled back. With a questioning glance, Erik met those blue eyes, now impossibly dazed and wild. “I don’t want this to end too soon….”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You absolutely should.” Charles lifted a foot out of the water and Erik instinctively offered a hand to help balance. The bathwater-warmed weight of Charles’ hand fell in his and Erik’s heart soared. With Charles on the dry mat, Erik rose to his feet, knees popping in protest as he rubbed the towel against Charles’ back and shoulders.

Charles purred under Erik’s touch, his hips finding a lazy motion to match the musical sway in the air as Erik drew close.

**Mistakes, I know I’ve made a few** **  
****But I’m only human** **  
****You’ve made mistakes, too** **  
****I’m cryin’** ****  
**Ooh ooh baby baby** **  
****Ooh ooh baby baby**

Erik found himself falling into the motion of Charles’ hips, so achingly close and just a breath away. _Fuck_ , Charles would be the death of him, but what a way to go.

A steady hand fell to the wet patch of shirt on Erik’s chest. “You’re far too overdressed.” Charles murmured, sliding his hand down to the hemline, tugging impatiently. Erik moved without any further encouragement, throwing his t-shirt across the bathroom. Charles hummed his approval, those strong, nimble fingers trailing back up Erik’s chest to tweak a nipple and drag a ragged moan from Erik. Charles chuckled with a deep rumble. “Keep going.”

Erik reached for his waist, shucking everything at once. His aching cock met the humid air, brushing against Charles’ stomach. He hissed at the contact, desperately hoping it wasn’t too much, too fast. God, if this really was Charles’ first…. His conscience cut through the fog of arousal, compelling him to speak. “I hope you’ll tell me if you’re ever uncomfortable – if you don’t want - if anything’s ever uninvited.”

“Darling, shh, please.” Charles’ eyes were so painfully earnest. “If it comes to that, I’ll tell you. But this…you’re that _someone_ I want to feel everything good with.” His other hand moved to join the first, bracketing Erik’s hips and pulling them flush together.

Erik shuddered with a sharp exhale, resisting the urge to thrust his hips forward and devour Charles. He would do this at Charles’ pace even if it killed him. He wanted this to be everything Charles wanted. 

Charles rolled against Erik’s length trapped at his hip. “Maybe...someday...I’ll let you take me for a ride, but not...not tonight.” 

Erik groaned, lowering his forehead to rest against Charles’ damp brow. “Whenever you want. And...god, if I weren’t a breath away from dragging you to bed right _fucking_ now, that would be so cheesy.” 

“I’m not trying to spoil the mood, I promise,” Charles sighed, a strangely uncertain sound given all his bravado. “This is...so new for me. I haven’t...it’s been so long since I was allowed to be -” 

“You don’t need to explain. I’m yours - all yours.” Erik rushed to cut him off, not wanting any more of the past to cast doubt on the present. “You told me no uninvited touch, and I only want to give you what you want.” 

“And what do you want?” 

Erik shook his head, letting himself enjoy the intimate feel of their bodies together. “What I want…,” he paused to lick his lips, angling his head to nuzzle Charles’ nose, “I want to see your face lost to pleasure. I want to feel that powerful strength forcing me into the mattress. I want to hear you cry out when you come. I want to know how you feel inside -”

Charles cut him off with the force of his kiss. Erik met him touch for touch, opening to welcome the desperate onslaught, wanting everything. He’d never experienced such electrically powerful, intimate foreplay with any previous partner. Honestly, the intoxicating power of Charles’ presence, touch, and kiss should worry him, but as Charles pulled him into the bedroom, Erik could bring himself to care. 

His back hit the cool bedcovers, taking Charles' weight as they fell together in a rush of full, uninhibited press of skin, the tangling of tongues and exploration of hands. Erik wound his arms around Charles' torso, crushing him close as he rolled his hips up. Charles' grip on his hip increased to a flashpoint of pain as he chased the delicious, hard friction. 

Erik groaned, hands trailing to grip the round curves of Charles’ backside. “We’re gonna need….” 

“Right….” Charles’ words were equally dazed, more a breath than a word. He reached a hand over for the bedside table and a container of vaseline. 

“Do I even want to know why you already have that here?” 

“Not for what you think,” Charles fumbled with the lid, dipping his fingers in, “well, I did move it here to have _you_ in bed, but it hasn’t been used for this purpose before.” He nibbled along Erik’s skin as Erik shifted to widen the spread of his legs. “It’s just us in this room - you and me...and I’ve never wanted anyone more.” 

The first slide of slick flingers against Erik’s skin pulled a groan from him as Charles continued to mouth along the column of his neck. Breath hitched at the first breach, a familiar, long-absent feeling that Erik wanted to drown in. His lips trembled against Charles’ skin. 

“Darling, you’ll have to tell me if I hurt you or how I can make it better.” Charles’ words formed against the shell of his ear. “I’ve never...you’re the first….” 

“You won’t hurt me, Charles - please, just... _more_.” 

By the stretch of two fingers, sweat beaded Erik’s brow and he clung to Charles with wild desperation. Charles looked at him with such awe and adoration, peppering his skin with maddening kisses and tender words. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close. He curled his hands in Charles’ hair, tugging their mouths to meet with messy, urgent heat. “I’m ready - want you - want you so bad, right _fucking_ now.” 

Charles cried out as Erik took hold of him, guiding him in place. Then - oh, and _there_. Erik threw his head back on the pillow, breathing stuttering as Charles filled him, fulfilled him, buried deep. 

The breath punched equally out of Charles’ chest as he settled, biting his lip in deep concentration. “You feel amazing...so _very_ good -.” He broke off, hips stuttering with instinctual need. “I’m not...not going to last -” 

“Then, don’t,” Erik encouraged through sloppy kisses, “move - move, fuck me, I’m yours. Only yours.”

A strong hand ripped Erik’s away to press it into the mattress as Charles braced his weight. He didn’t hold back as he withdrew and snapped his hips forward. Erik cried out at the wonderful, painful sensation. So, maybe he hadn't been the most truthful - he wanted pain to mix with the pleasure. He wanted to remember the feel of Charles in him with each step tomorrow. He wanted to wear the bruises on his skin. At this rate, he wouldn’t be disappointed. 

Tension coiled tight at the base of Erik’s spine as he was forced into the bedcovers with each deep, toe-curling thrust. He panted heavily against Charles’ neck, urging him on, holding nothing back. A strangled cry seized Charles’ throat as his hips shoved forward in one last, blinding rush. His strong grip on Erik’s hand faltered, heart slamming against Erik’s. 

The damp tendrils of his hair brushed Erik’s cheek as he gasped. “I’m sorry - so sorry. I’ll do better, be better -” 

“Shut up, Charles,” Erik carded his fingers through the coconut scented hair, “stop apologizing. You gave me exactly what I wanted.” Sure, he was still hard and aching and overdue for a mind-blowing orgasm, but the last thing he wanted was Charles to feel inadequate in any way. 

“But you didn’t...when I did….” 

“And real sex is nowhere near the pretty stuff of fiction.” He met Charles’ lips in a solid kiss, raising his hand to cradle the smooth jawline. 

Charles sighed and leaned into the contact, shifting his hips and lowering a hand to where Erik still strained between them. “Sounds like a good goal to strive for.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your continued support with this tale!   
> Recent and upcoming holidays may slow postings...but the *ahem* climax of this tale is on its way...


	10. Donlike’em

Perhaps it was dawn. Perhaps it was noon. Erik honestly didn’t care. 

He let his head sink deeper into the pillow, curling tighter against Charles’ back and tucking his nose into soft, coconut scented hair. His body felt deliciously uncoiled, relaxed and pleasantly sore from Charles’ attentions. God, what he wouldn’t give to just stay in bed with Charles, just like this and to hell with the rest of the world. 

Having thoroughly spent the initial pent-up energy, their second round had been slower, more focused, incredibly more intense. Erik's breath hitched with the drowsy memories.

_The angle of Charles’ hips shifted, tearing a strangled cry from Erik as he drove against that spot to whiteout Erik’s vision._

_“That’s it, darling,” Charles encouraged, teeth scraping Erik’s neck as he continued to thrust in Erik’s tight, all-consuming heat, “let me hear how you feel. Let me hear you come for me - just for me.”_

Erik couldn’t remember the last time - if ever - he’d come so hard untouched before. Surely that meant something, but it was too early for Erik’s contentedly fuzzed mind to linger on. Or perhaps it was too late. 

It was impossible to tell either way through those grime-shrouded windows. 

A low groan sounded from his bedmate and Erik’s mouth curved with warm affection. 

Charles shifted in Erik’s embrace, tucking in closer. “Whatimes’it?” 

Erik chuckled, slow and gravelly. “Why do you care? You don’t have anywhere to be.” 

“Times’nom’frien.” 

“You’re adorable in the morning.” 

A strong, pale hand rose, loosely swatting Erik’s shoulder. “Donlike’em.” 

“Hmm, then you’ve been doing them wrong.” Erik pushed his thigh forward, slotting easily between Charles’. He pressed up against Charles’ groin, rumbling his approval to feel the shorter man already hard. He rubbed closer in a deliberate tease, delighting as Charles arched back against him. 

Charles’ head lolled on the pillow, cracking a surprisingly alert, lovely blue eye. “You’re insatiable.” 

“Me?” Erik tried for innocent, but knew his smile revealed too many teeth as he again rubbed against Charles. 

“Mmm, go easy on me, darling. I’m an old man, after all.” 

“Old man, my ass.” 

“That’s right,” Charles rolled in Erik’s embrace, slotting their hips together, “you were so amazing last night. I can’t... _unngh_ , we’ve wasted so much time.” 

“Don’t say it like that.” Erik brushed his nose to Charles’ as he set a slow rhythm with his hips to send sparks racing along his skin. “We’re right where we’re supposed to be.” 

“Maybe not quite.” A mischievous edge curled Charles’ mouth, matched in his mesmerizing eyes. “Let me make it better.” 

He adjusted the covers, sliding down the length of Erik’s slender torso to wrap his lips around Erik’s straining arousal. After last night, he was sure he’d worked off the edge of urgency - but under the suction of Charles’ mouth, the curl of his tongue, Erik’s eyes screwed shut in euphoric release all too soon. And with the taste of his release on Charles’ tongue, it took only a few strokes to tip Charles over the edge with him. 

Both gasping for breath, sticky and sated, they floated back to earth in each others’ arms. Erik’s fingers drifted along the line of Charles’ spine as they lay pressed together. 

“Don’t let me fall back asleep,” Charles mumbled against Erik’s chest. “I need to make up for yesterday.” 

“So long as there’s no more hydrogen explosions.” 

“No, no. I won’t be so careless again.” 

“I know.” He pressed a kiss to Charles’ brow, just breathing him in. What would it take to hold him like this every morning? 

“And what about you?” 

“What about me?” 

“Your work on the house. Your decision about what to do.” Charles scoffed, his body jerking from the sharp exhalation. “What else would occupy your day, darling?” 

“I know what I’d like to occupy it with.” He trailed a teasing hand down to squeeze Charles’ backside, rewarded with a sated, lazy moan. 

“Don’t tempt me.” 

Erik’s face suddenly brightened with remembrance. “I didn’t get the chance to tell you yesterday, but I’m staying on for an extra week. It’s...the best I can do.” 

Charles’ head lifted from Erik’s chest, those piercing eyes finding his. “Erik, that’s...,” he exhaled, licking his lips, visibly searching for words, “that’s wonderful. And appreciated. And completely lovely. And...now, I really haven’t a moment to waste.” 

It only took another half hour to finally drag themselves out of bed. 

And, sure enough, a faint twinge of pleasurable discomfort accompanied Erik’s every step. It wasn’t intense enough to force a limp, but just enough to keep the vivid memories with him as he went about his day. 

Today, it was the Crystal Library. He wasn’t sure the extent of the literary collection it held, but surely, some of it had to be valuable. Some first editions or other books equally as rare, or perhaps out of publication. Maybe he could make some money with online selling, or working with an auction house. But first, he had to know what he had. 

The lack of dust on each book he touched was almost unnerving. Every bookshelf he’d ever encountered in his life had dust on at least one book or in one corner, but everything here was just uncannily pristine. As if compressed air was used to continually blow the place clean. He chased away the ridiculous notion as he reached for the next title. 

‘A Treatise on the Bronze Age’. ‘Eye of Newt, Toe of Frog, Wool of Bat, And You’. ‘Hands and Paws: A Study in Similarity and Contrast’. ‘The Salem Witch Trials’. ‘Radiology in War’. 

Each title proved as bizarre and random as the next. Try as he might, Erik couldn’t figure out the organizational system - the books weren’t arranged by author or title or topic as far as he could tell. But he knew his way around a spreadsheet, building a table to cross-reference titles, topics, and shelf location. Curiously enough, Shaw’s desk had a pad of sticky notes and he labeled each shelf as he went, moving title by title. 

He’d only ever spent so much time in this room with Charles that he could largely put the statue of the crystal woman from his mind. But now that he was alone with her...well, he couldn’t ignore the nagging sensation that her eyes followed him around the room. Maybe they did. If what Charles said was true - if she truly was Shaw’s scorned ex-mistress - then, could she still be alive under all that crystal ice? 

He cast her a sideways glance, almost daring her to move, as he affixed another sticky note to the bookshelf. 

“Love what you’ve done with the place.” Charles’ dry quip matched his sly smile as he entered the library later that night. “This is worse than my office when I developed my thesis.” 

Erik looked up from making his martini, turning towards the library door. Charles stood just inside with a relaxed, amused smile. Freshly bathed, he wore black trousers, a white button-up shirt and curiously - deliciously - a thin, black tie. All he needed was a pocket protector and a pair of thick framed glasses to pass as a 1960s engineer. 

“Well, not all of us can be as organized as you.” A smile tilted Erik’s lips as he spoke, watching Charles walk towards him. 

“I didn’t say this looks disorganized. Quite the opposite, in fact. You said your career was research and development, and you have to be organized for research.” 

“Curious you say that, as this collection has no rhyme or reason.” 

Charles stopped next to him, blue eyes bright in the firelight. “Not that you can see, anyway.” He leaned in and it was the most natural thing for Erik to meet him in a lingering kiss. 

Nothing had felt so right since Erik left bed that morning. He pecked Charles’ lips again before pulling back. “You’re rather spiffed up with the tie tonight.” 

“Forgive me for wanting to look nice for you. Must be an old fashioned notion.” His eyes raked down Erik’s simple trousers and dark turtleneck. “Besides, the tie might be useful later.” 

Erik groaned, knocking the decanter against the edge of the highball with a cringeworthy clank of crystal. “For fuck’s sake, Charles - warn a guy next time.” 

“And miss a rare opportunity to fluster you? I don’t think so, darling.” 

Erik handed over the highball, watching Charles take it with a smile that hadn’t dimmed since their kiss. “A more productive day today, I take it?” 

“Much more productive. I synthesized the orotic acid I need for the final titration.” 

Erik fixed Charles with an unimpressed look as he took his place on the white sofa. “Really, Charles? _Erotic_ acid?” 

Charles shook his head, equally unimpressed. “I knew I had it right this morning. Not _erotic_ acid, darling, _orotic_ acid. Your body’s producing it right now, in fact.” 

“So, it’s naturally occurring, yet you had to synthesize it?” 

“Not even Shaw managed to successfully harvest it, thank god.” Charles let Erik have the opening move. “It operates at the cellular level, truly linking mitochondrial bioenergetics, cell proliferation, and apoptosis in certain cell types. This acid from the dihydroorotate dehydrogenase enzyme encoded by the DHODH gene on chromosome 16 plays a key role in supporting accurate DNA synthesis, without which humans experience mutations to their genetic makeup.” 

Erik didn’t dare interrupt. Despite how Charles had come by the knowledge, there was obvious passion in his voice. Erik couldn’t say he understood half of it, but it was a shame that Charles never got to teach. He would surely have been the best. 

Charles trailed off, a wistful smile on his face as he slid a pawn forward. “I don’t mean to drone on. But ever since I first learned about the science of genetics, I found it absolutely fascinating. Always thought it would be interesting to pursue it someday, in a true academic setting. Not this little shop of horrors.” 

Erik paused with his martini glass halfway to his lips. “There’s no way you should know that phrase...or film. That was easily the late '80s.” 

Charles met his questioning look. “I don’t think my years are off...there was a film in the paper, ‘The Little Shop of Horrors’. About a carnivorous plant that only eats human flesh and blood? I remember that Shaw loved the idea...in fact, he spent at least one afternoon pouring over maps, postulating on the existence of such plants deep in the rainforests. I think he even wanted to pursue an expedition someday, but never truly got around to it.” 

“Obviously, he didn’t see the film.” Erik made his next move. “If he had, he would have known that particular plant was from outer space.” 

Charles laughed against the edge of his highball with genuine amusement. “An alien plant? How delightfully original.” 

Erik set his drink down, reaching for his phone. “You’ve never seen me do this before, but I have to look this up….” He typed in his search, scrolling through the results. “The original film released in 1960, a black comedy. It was made into a Broadway musical in 1982, and the film that I know in 1986.” 

“A musical?” Charles looked mildly horrified. “Musicals aren’t supposed to be about killing people and feeding them to plants.”

“Then, what should musicals be about?” 

“Why, romance, comedy, life contemplation - take ‘42nd Street’ or ‘The Big Broadcast’, for example - radio style music numbers, or about the production of a Broadway show. And certainly no signing and dancing about human-eating plants.” 

Erik chuckled low, shaking his head. “Then god forbid you should ever see ‘Rocky Horror Picture Show’. You might lose all faith in modern society.” Or maybe not. For a man of his age and upbringing, Charles was quite open-minded. Which made it all the more amusing that he balked at the concept of a musical about a flesh-eating, extraterrestrial plant. He moved his knight, reaching his drink. 

His eyes caught Charles’, floored by the happiness that shone in those crystalline eyes. Had Erik ever seen such pure joy? 

Charles smiled to rival the sun. “I would love to watch a movie with you. Is...is that too much to ask?” 

Erik felt his stomach drop to his feet, suddenly wanting to kick himself for feeling like a teenager with a crush. But there was just something so innocent and young on Charles’ question, despite all that they had shared last night. He nodded easily. “Of course, we can.” 

“On your telephone, right?” 

“Yeah, on my phone.” Erik chuckled in spite of himself. This truly did feel like he was about to have his teenage crush over for a movie night that may or may not end as innocently as it started. An overwhelming, fond warmth fluttered in his chest - and Erik would never admit to his heart fluttering before this moment - but sitting here with Charles...it was impossible to deny.

Suddenly, the chessboard held far less interest. Erik checked his phone, finding ‘Little Shop of Horrors’ on streaming. He shifted on the couch, looking back to Charles. “Get over here.” 

Charles’ face brightened. “Just like that? I thought...I just assumed we’d have to wait.” 

“Welcome to the century of instant gratification.” 

“That sounds quite terrifying, actually.” He rose from the armchair, moving around the glass table. 

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Erik shuffled on the long sofa, stretching out against the cushy leather before holding a hand out to Charles. With graceful ease, he slotted in between Erik and the back of the couch as Erik propped his phone on his stomach with a throw pillow. Charles' head rested against Erik’s upper chest as Erik draped an arm over his shoulder, tucking him close. Their legs tangled together and Erik hit play.

He couldn’t resist pressing a kiss to Charles’ brow as the opening number started. 

There was laughter, there were questions, there were pleas to never visit a dentist office, there were more stolen kisses - and Charles made his displeasure for Erik’s high-necked turtleneck clearly known. Erik’s fingers drifted between the trim curve of Charles’ hipbone up to the soft locks of his hair, unable to believe he was here in this moment. 

Despite the house, despite the setting, despite Charles’ history - he was just a man holding the man he loved. And he would do anything to hold onto him. 

Absolutely anything. 


	11. My, how you’ve grown

Waking in Charles’ embrace was easier than breathing. 

Yes, Erik knew how that sounded even in his own mind. But that didn’t make it any less true. 

Despite the deceptive strength that never failed to heat Erik’s blood, he wasn’t overly heavy. The weight of his arm around Erik’s midsection was both comforting and possessive. And the knee wedged between Erik’s thighs...well. 

After the movie ended, they moved upstairs, hand-in-hand and settled on Charles’ room. Peeling Charles out of his dress shirt and tie gave Erik the satisfaction that had been denied him last night. Welcoming the hot, thick slide of Charles back into his body proved even more satisfying. And nothing had felt as natural as curling together in the afterglow. Hell, he was even tempted to ask Charles for one of his cigarettes. 

Maybe tonight he would. 

But now, he needed to focus. He had never seen such shockingly blue salt before and he didn’t want to screw up. 

Charles adjusted the heat on the Bunsen burner as he slowly stirred a beaker of clear liquid. He brought the flame low, continuing the slow mixing motion. “Alright, Erik - just add a few granules at a time.” 

Erik forced a swallow. Chemistry wasn’t his strong suit. “And you’re sure this won’t erupt in smoke or flame? Should I not also wear goggles?” 

Charles' mouth quirked under the round, welding-style goggles. “You’re not the one with your face next to open flame and glass. And no, mixing water and copper sulfate pentahydrate is a child’s experiment, quite frankly - one of the least dangerous things I’ve done here. It just takes three hands to develop a perfect solution.” 

Mildly reassured, Erik dipped the spoon into the small dish Charles had given him. Gathering a miniscule amount of the blue salt, he tipped it into the beaker that Charles still slowly stirred. He returned the spoon for another helping, and another, slowly watching the dish empty. 

Charles hissed as he turned the flame down lower, not losing the mixing motion with his other hand. 

“Something wrong?” Erik stilled his hand, watching Charles work. 

“Nothing serious. The copper sulfate needs to dissolve into solution which gives off latent heat that’s not enough to keep the water at the minimum temperature required for dissolution to occur, so it’s a fine line of keeping the water just warm enough without boiling and accounting for the added heat of the exothermic reaction. Hence, the constant mixing and heat adjustment...and why I needed you to add the salt.” 

Erik returned to adding small spoonfuls of salt. “Is this the ingredient that prevents one’s hair from turning grey or falling out? Or reduces skin wrinkles?” 

“Traditionally, it’s used as a fungicide.” 

“A fungicide….” Erik tipped in the last remaining salt crystals. “There’s a fungicide in this eternal youth serum. On top of formaldehyde.” 

Charles arrested the flame of the burner, raising his goggles even as he continued to stir. “You already decreed that I wasn’t a zombie - but all tissue decays with time. By the order of natural law, I should be long since old and moldy in the ground. But instead…,” he motioned to the beaker, “this helps keeps me young and mold-free above ground.” 

It was equal parts fascinating and horrific. So much discovery and exploration had taken place in this brick room. So many breakthroughs, and surely, so many failures. If only mainstream science knew about the advances - questionable as they were - that had taken place here. But, god the repercussions, the outcry, the revulsion. 

“Thank you for your help, darling.” Charles flashed a warm smile. “I need to move on with the electrolysis before this cools too much more.” 

“Electrolysis?”

“Yes, the copper must be purified to reduce toxicity.” 

The word roiled in Erik's gut, mixing with a question that he’d long since wondered but hadn’t yet found an avenue to voice. He licked his lips in contemplation before speaking. “How will you know when you have the serum right?” 

Charles switched on a nearby machine, a high-pitched buzz now echoing off the brick. “There’s a simple titration that I can run on a sample and compare it back to the remnants of Shaw’s serum that I still have.” 

“So, you won’t just have to inject yourself to know if you got it right.” 

The shorter man paused, face pinched with concern as he looked back at Erik. “Of course not - I hope nothing I’ve said or done has given you that impression. Honestly, I’d trap one of the mice scurrying around first before just injecting myself.” 

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” 

“It’s better than how things used to be done down here.” 

That provided only a modicum of comfort but Erik leaned forward, meeting Charles for a gentle, reassuring kiss. His mouth lifted with a small smile. “Just be careful.” 

“Of course,” Charles matched his smile, “you, too.”

Erik arched a dubious brow. “This is my house, remember?” 

“Doesn’t mean you won’t uncover ghosts that are better left alone.” 

Charles’ words filled him with sudden unease, and Erik couldn’t keep his eyes from straying to the three closed doors that lined the back of the laboratory. Those were still the only three doors in the entire house that he hadn’t opened. He nodded at the far wall. “Like what’s behind those doors?” 

Irritation pricked along the back of Erik’s neck as Charles stayed silent. He drew a deep breath, steeling his voice. “Charles - what is behind those doors?” 

At length, the shorter man sighed. “Nothing anymore. Just memories.” 

Erik blinked, his stomach turning sour. Good thing he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. “What...what were those rooms used for?” 

Charles bit his lip, looking back to the beaker hesitantly. “I already told you I need to press ahead before this cools -”

“Reheat it later.” He stared back at the shorter man. “Charles.” 

Charles' gaze hardened to match the tense line of his jaw. "I told you that you wouldn’t sleep if you knew the truth about Darwin, and you didn’t push it then. So, why now?”

“You asked me to help you with this...that involvement, all this here - it's like I'm complicit in all that’s happened here.” He shook his head, still grappling to vocalize why he suddenly needed to know. “I know you came by most of this knowledge through Shaw and that he had no moral or ethical restraints on how to acquire it. And those are the last three doors in this - _my -_ house that I haven’t opened.” 

A tense silence passed before Charles stepped back, biting his lower lip as he turned back to the table. “Well, there’s nothing stopping you. They’re not locked.”

Erik couldn’t help the nagging sensation that it felt like a trap, even though his mind couldn’t rationalize it. Without sparing the shorter man a second glance, he wove through the worktables and reached for the handle to the door in the middle. 

“You needn’t bother with the other two.” Charles called out over his shoulder. “They’re all the same.” 

Of course, a preliminary guess of what these doors hid had crossed Erik’s mind. But it was another to come face to face with the reality that each door concealed a holding cell. A dark, dank space that reeked of ancient decay and stale mold. The floor was coarse, damp dirt and the walls were the same imposing brick as the main laboratory. Rusting shackles - some low on the wall, some high on the wall - dangled limp and ominous. No sign of a bed or cot that Erik could see, but the disintegrating remains of a shabby cloth could be seen wadded in one far corner. A darker hole in the ground occupied the other far corner. It was impossible to tell who all and how many had been forced to endure these confines. 

Erik’s stomach rotted at the thought. Of course, there had to be some place for Shaw to turn people to ice and stone...and whatever else the depraved man did. But seeing it now...enraged him. 

With a white-knuckled grip, he closed the door and turned back to Charles. Charles, who calmly arranged the placement of an anode and cathode, studying the clear liquid in front of him. 

Erik couldn’t stop himself. “How much did you know?” He tried again when he got no answer. “I said - how much did you _know?_ How much did you know about the people who suffered down here all while you worked to save your own skin?" 

Charles shook his head without looking up. “You’re not going to make me feel guilty for it, Erik. Not after so many years. Not if you haven’t seen the things I’ve witnessed - heard and _smelled_.” Those piercing blue eyes slashed to Erik’s from under his dark, furrowed brow. “Shaw loved cruel mind games more than most, but I did what I could as I was able for those lost souls - and if saving my own skin meant that there was one less person Shaw would have to torture, then he could call me his ‘baby doll’ for as long as he liked.” 

Erik’s heart leapt to his throat, the fight slowly draining out of him replaced with emotions he liked far less. Unease, guilt, remorse, regret. Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed the issue, maybe he shouldn’t have rounded on Charles like that. But the atrocities against the living conducted in this manor were beyond sickening. Not to even mention how the corpses were disposed of after the fact. 

He sighed, frustrated and disgusted. He should probably apologize. But he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. 

A sniffle sounded across the room as Charles clinked metal to glass. “You should probably return upstairs now. I wouldn’t want you to have anymore self-loathing than you already do." 

Erik’s mouth pinched to a thin line. “Charles, I -” 

“Not now, Erik. Please.” Charles brushed him with a dismissive gaze. “You clearly need some time. And, quite frankly, I could, too. This doesn’t mean that I won’t see you later, or fall asleep in your arms tonight. But the demons that haunt this place are not easy to reconcile.” 

Erik hated the dismissal but couldn't disagree. He needed to get out of this closed-off space and breathe.

He turned for the stairwell without a parting word. And Charles offered none. 

Once he stood in the entry hall, staring at the collection of macabre art, suits of disturbing armor, ancient weaponry, gleaming instruments - he knew what he had to do. Too many horrors had been committed here to simply sell this place. Hellfire Manor had to be destroyed. Dismantled stone by stone, never to again see the light of day. Maybe then all those tortured souls could find some peace. 

Honestly, it would be far more satisfying to see the manor burn to the ground. Reduced to worthless ash that could never harm another living soul again. 

Fuck, he needed coffee. Now. 

With brisk steps, he moved for the study, grabbing the coffee carafe. Dark liquid sloshed into the pristine, white porcelain and the carafe returned to the tray with a metallic clank. The burn barely registered on his tongue. He needed to start researching demolition companies - or however one went about initiating the teardown process. Would he have to empty the house first? Or could the wrecking balls just swing? 

He spied glinting light from the Crystal Library across the hall, turning for a better look. The coffee cup slipped from his hand, crashing to the carpet, as he took in the sight. All of his sticky notes were _gone_. He strode across the hall to get a better look. There was not a note in sight - no pile on the glass table, no notes fallen to the floor. In fact, it looked like Erik had never been here - just the same as it did every evening when he and Charles met for chess. Just as pristine, just as clean…. 

Mr. Quested. 

It was the only rational explanation. But why had he taken down all of Erik’s notes? This was _his_ house now, not Shaw’s. And whatever Erik did to it was his business, not Quested’s. 

The thought struck him and he turned for the back hallway off the kitchen. Jamming his skeleton key in the door of the insect room, he flipped on the lightswitch. Gleaming display cases lined every square centimeter of the room just as if Erik had never taken them all down. The two tete-a-tetes sat neatly in the middle of the room - it looked just like the first day that Erik saw it. 

His anger boiled, the urge to lash out in a fight returning as he turned for the charred room next door. His key fit the lock, but the bolt mechanism didn’t engage. He tried again, applying more force to the turning key. But the lock didn’t budge. It almost - no, it _did_ feel like the lock bolt had been stripped. Deliberately _on purpose_. 

He tore through the door out to the garden, slamming it on its hinge as he emerged into a thick, rolling fog. Even through his fury, he couldn’t help but be reminded of scenes from the classic monster films of the 1930s - Dracula, Frankenstein, Wolf Man - with their fog-shrouded landscapes. He moved around to the windows that he scrubbed earlier last week, peering into the darkened room. Sure enough, every piece of furniture had been restored to its previous arrangement. 

Erik’s hands balled to tight fists. He needed to talk to Quested. _Now._

A bone-shaking, deep growl filled the air. Not animalistic by any stretch, but one that spoke to Erik’s heart. The pure, mechanical growl of a powerful engine. With a furrowed brow, he stepped to the back of the house for a clearer view.

Twin bright yellow lights just barely pierced the heavy mist. Slowly, they crept forward as the engine’s purr shifted into gear with an authoritative rumble that reverberated in his chest. The black beast of a car lumbered forward, emerging like a foul specter onto the drive that led out to the main road. 

Erik had never seen that hulking car move before. He’d been here almost two weeks, but maybe going into town for supplies was a biweekly occurrence. He watched the car continue down the drive until its hulking shape disappeared into the mist and the engine roar faded into the sound of wind in the trees. 

He didn’t know if Quested accompanied Azazel in that car, but it was time to find out. Storming through the damp fog, he approached the open garage door. The strong, familiar scent of petrol permeated the air as he fished in the tool chest drawers for a set of small screwdrivers. His tumultuous youth served him well as he picked the lock to the only locked door in the garage. It took him a few minutes, but soon enough the door swung free to an innocuous staircase. Eerily, the stairs made no creaks or groans as Erik ascended. 

A small landing greeted him at the top with two black lacquered doors inset with thick, image-distorting glass. There was no obvious mark to tell which door was Quested’s and which one was Azazel’s. He went for the door on the right, finding it unlocked. The living room and kitchen looked simple enough - a small, fairly modern TV, cheap furniture that looked straight from IKEA. An ashtray with a couple of cigarette butts sat on the kitchen table next to two shot glasses and a half-empty bottle of Russian vodka. Must be Azazel’s quarters. 

But as Erik rounded the kitchen, down a small hallway - there were two bedrooms here. A quick circuit of each revealed that both closets were full, each en suite was stocked, and phone chargers rested near each bedside table. 

More disturbingly, there were no signs of anything unusual. No cabinets full of shocking yellow eternal youth serum. No creepy artifacts or artwork. No hint of their employer’s aesthetic. This was just another apartment - hell, it could be anybody’s apartment. 

But that begged the question. If the landing had two doors for presumably two apartments - then why were Azazel and Quested roommates? Erik didn’t linger on the question before he found himself staring at the second door. It, too, opened with silent, fluid ease. 

Only this living room was shrouded in heavy dark red, almost black curtains. There was little scattering of furniture, but it didn’t look like this place was heavily used. Pale yellow light shone out from the small hallway off the kitchen. He rounded the corner onto the kitchen linoleum, stunned at the sight. 

What should have been a kitchen had clearly been converted. Deep metal cabinets lined the walls, their glass fronts revealing all manor of various colored, jarred liquids. The faint light caught blues, greens - and yes, the familiar, brilliant yellow. Erik almost couldn’t believe it. The cabinet that stretched out before him contained what surely had to be an infinite supply. Of course, Quested had to be getting it somewhere - and, now that he was here, why shouldn't he just take it for Charles? 

A wheezing cough echoed down the hall. Erik froze, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. Adrenaline fired in his veins, heart hammering as he left the kitchen to investigate - who else could possibly…? As he approached the door omitting the weak light, he could hear more sounds - controlled, mechanical releases of air; steady, rhythmic beeping.

He nudged the door open, blood curdling as the one voice he never wanted to hear again spoke. 

“Ah, _mein kleiner Erik Lehnsherr_ ,” Shaw croaked against the wires and tubes, “my, how you’ve grown.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for brightening my day with comments & kudos at all stages of this tale!


	12. He told me enough

It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t _fucking_ possible. This wasn’t _fucking happening._

But Erik couldn’t deny the truth before his eyes. 

Shaw. _Alive_ and breathing, if just barely it seemed. From his memory, Shaw could objectively be called handsome, but not anymore. He didn’t look burned, exactly. But severely wrinkled, pruned...or maybe it was the result of severe burns. Skin hung in heavy folds from his cheekbones, pulling down his lower eye-lids to expose an eerie amount of his eyeballs. His hair hung in stringy wisps and the rest of his skull was dark with the same damaged skin. He looked paper thin and feeble, as if just standing would make his bones collapse. An array of machines flashed and hummed and puffed and beeped around him. 

Just what the hell had happened?

Erik glared at his not-dead uncle. “Why the fuck are you still alive?” 

“Oh, Liebling, where are your manners? It’s good to see you, too.” 

“It’s never been good to see you.” 

Shaw’s lips pulled to a sinister mockery of a smile that showed too many teeth and red gums. “Always such a fighter. I’ve always admired that about you.” 

“Stop stalling. Why are you still alive?” 

“Isn’t the answer obvious?” A gnarled brow rose in amusement. “I’m alive because I’m not dead.” 

“Then, why the charade? Why the lawyer? Why the fucking house inheritance?”

“Yes, well...it was rather unexpected, you see. I had finally done it - I had finally cracked the code for energy absorption through the skin. Just imagine it! If…,” he paused to catch his breath, his enthusiasm clearly outpacing his body’s physical limits. “If instead of needing a nap or coffee, you could touch fire and convert the energy of combustion; or you could touch a live wire and convert the energy of electricity. Why, you’d never need to sleep again! It’s said that humans spend an average of 26 years of their life asleep. Just imagine what you could do with 26 extra years of time.” 

Erik blinked, shaking his head. “But clearly something backfired or didn't work....God, I already thought you were insane 15 years ago.” 

The gleam in Shaw’s bloodshot eye was disconcerting. “Insane…? Oh, Liebling - you of all people should understand. After all, I hear you’ve been enjoying my favorite toy.” 

Erik bristled, mouth pinching to a tight line. “Leave him out of this.” 

A rasping laugh punched from Shaw’s chest, more a hacking wheeze than anything - but still unsettling. “I’m so glad it’s true! If I’d known 15 years ago that introducing you to my doll would be the key to recruiting you, we would have gone straight to the attic.” 

“Meeting Charles changed nothing. I will destroy your home and all it stands for very shortly.” 

Shaw looked unconcerned, still eyeing Erik with his disturbing smile, the parchment-thin skin stretched in grotesque lines. “Tell me, does he still smell like coconut?” 

Erik’s gut twisted, every memory of drowning in Charles’ scent flashing in his mind. 

“Delightful, isn’t it?” Shaw continued. “Just like those pretty eyes of his. He was always pretty, even in the days before my serums - in case you had wondered.” He paused, sighing wistfully. “I hope he screams as pretty for you as he did for me.” 

Red filled Erik’s vision. He wanted to strangle the man, stab the man, bash his head in - _anything_. But no - no, he wouldn’t give Shaw the satisfaction, couldn’t let Shaw manipulate or control him ever again. He exhaled a deep breath, positively vibrating with anger. “I don’t think you understood me,” he ground out each word, fighting for self-control, “your legacy, your research -is finished. I will raze it all to the ground, vengeance for all those you so needlessly murdered.” 

Shaw’s face lit with intrigue. “Murdered...now, that’s an interesting choice of word.”

“I’m not debating the philosophy of sacrifice for the greater cause or whatever other delirium you have - fact is, those people would still be alive if not for your research.” 

“Fact is only _some_ of them would be dead. Far more are dead now through no fault of my own,” Shaw’s mouth lifted with a dark leer, “or, did Charles not tell you?” 

Erik froze, in no mood to play Shaw’s mind games. “He told me enough.” 

“And you trust him? How unlike you!” 

Erik refused to take the bait. But, of course, that didn’t deter Shaw who continued talking. “Shall I tell you about Angel? The angel who couldn’t fly, so I gave her wings? And Banshee - a man who had no voice, so I gave him a voice to break glass and sound barriers. And dear Alex - a chronic insomniac who just needed to find another way to sustain himself.” Shaw shook head, slow and mournful. “All three - like so many others - on the precipice of perfection, and all cut down too soon. All unjustly murdered _by Charles_.” 

Erik had heard enough. Charles wouldn’t...that didn’t make sense. Charles wasn’t a killer - he couldn’t be. Could he? 

**Those piercing blue eyes slashed to Erik’s from under Charles’ dark, furrowed brow. “Shaw loved cruel mind games more than most, but I did what I could as I was able for those lost souls.”**

Remembrance doused him like ice water. Was that what Charles meant? That he...didn’t save them, but just put them out of their misery? Did that make it better? Was that the true mark of mercy?

Shaw rasped another wheezing, gurgling sound. “It surprised me, too, when I found out. At first, I didn’t understand why my subjects had perished. They had no life-threatening conditions, they just needed final adjustments. But my baby doll had sharper teeth than I expected.” 

“ _Stop_ calling him that.” 

“You have to admit it suits him perfectly.” Shaw gave a vague wave of a spindly hand, “apart from the stone-cold killing, that is.” 

“There’s nothing stone or porcelain about him. He’s flesh and blood, and built of stronger stuff than you or me.” 

Shaw scoffed grotesquely. “Please don’t say that he’s the best thing to ever happen to you.” 

Erik bit his tongue. “Even if he was, you wouldn’t deserve to hear it.” 

“ _Wunderbar_!” That attempt of a smile with too many teeth returned. “I wish you good luck, by the way. With my estate. Janos tells me you’ve tried to redecorate and I appreciate his steadfast devotion to maintain my aesthetic instead. And Charles, well...I hear he toils daily in the laboratory to recreate my eternal youth serum. I’ll let you in on a secret - he won’t crack it. There’s a key ingredient I omitted from my notes, you see. I couldn’t risk that he’d create his own and run off into the world - the poor boy just wouldn’t know where to begin in this modern civilization.” 

The rage returned full bore and Erik walked closer to the bed, hoping he proved menacing enough. “Then, you can just tell me what the missing ingredient is. Or, easier yet - if you say Charles is a murderer, we’ll kill you as you lay here and take the serum stored out there for ourselves.” 

“Janos and Azazel will never allow that to happen.” 

“They’re not here now.” 

“So observant.” Shaw’s breath stuttered as he, with great effort, leaned up from his pillow. “Tell me, truly - do you have what it takes to kill me? To look in my eyes as the light fades and know that it fades because of you?" His crazed, bloodshot gaze pinned Erik in place. "Would that make Edie proud? Did she give you the heart of a killer? Her one and only son? Her _Schatz_?” 

The mention of Erik’s mother stunned him, the use of her favored endearment gutted him. Suddenly, he was 15-years old again, standing at her graveside with Uncle Shaw’s hand heavy and caressing on his shoulder. Of course, his mother wouldn’t want him to kill, to murder - but this was _Sebastian Shaw_ who ruined countless lives, sacrificed countless victims in his quest for unnatural glory. He couldn’t be allowed to live….Erik couldn’t just…he couldn't.... 

Shaw relaxed back into his pillow, clearly satisfied. “Run along now, Liebling. How about this - I'll even do you a favor. I won’t tell Janos that you were here.” His lips curled with one last haunting, manic grin. “Don’t say I never did anything for you, now.” 

Erik could do nothing. Mentally, emotionally, physically - just _numb_ , he backed from the bedroom and down the hall. He found himself standing on the mist shrouded lawn before his reeling mind even started trying to understand what had just happened. 

And why...in that moment of truth, when he could have well and truly ended it, all this, _everything_ \- why had he been so utterly unmanned at the mere mention of his mother’s name? He pinched his eyes shut, mortified to find his lashes wet and tears streaming down his cheeks. All he could see behind his closed eyelids was a long-forgotten Hanukkah, lighting the menorah with his mother, celebrating such joy and love in a season of hope. 

He forced himself back to the present with a shake of his head. None of that would help him figure out what to do next. What to do about Shaw. What to do about Charles. Oh god... _Charles_. How would he react when he found out? Should Erik even tell him? 

Why shouldn’t they just break in and steal the serum while Quested and Azazel were still out? Then, they could just leave and be fucking _free_ of this place. But with the manor still under Erik’s name and Shaw still alive, well...would they ever truly be free? 

The growling roar of the monstrous car sounded up the drive, cutting through the thick fog. 

He swiped at the tears on his cheeks, sniffing to clear his nose. Either way, he knew the answer.

Shaw had two friends. Erik could do with one. 

But compartmentalization. That was the key. Even in his youth, Erik had learned the value in keeping busy to distract from the things that he didn’t want to think about. This situation here wasn’t wholly different, even if it was infinitely more fucked up. 

Besides, if Shaw really wasn’t going to tell Quested about Erik’s visit, then why should he tip the man off otherwise? Especially if he and Charles could actually devise some way to deal with Shaw, remove Quested and Azazel from the equation, and get the serum for themselves. But those were discussions and plans for later. For now, he...he needed to keep focused. Perhaps one of the paintings in the dining room had a renowned artist or would fetch a high price at an auction house. 

No such luck it seemed. But he just had to keep focused. 

The ever-present fire roared in the library hearth when the time finally, _finally_ came for his nightly rendezvous with Charles. And why wouldn’t it? Quested wouldn’t want the newly enamored lovers to be without their romantic setting. Shaw just wouldn’t approve. 

Erik’s gut tightened as he paced just inside the door, waiting for Charles. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his mind on the chessboard even if he tried which would only arouse Charles’ suspicion, and he couldn’t risk that they weren’t under observation here. 

“Ah, Erik. Good evenin-” 

He reached for Charles, reeling him in for a solid, heavy kiss. Charles’ touch was pure tonic. Erik pressed him close, looping an arm around his waist, raising the other to cup his jaw, kissing him as if his life depended on it. Maybe it did. A moan pitched high in Charles’ throat as he curved into Erik’s embrace, giving just as good as he received. Dizzy for breath, they parted.

Charles looked up at him with dark, glazed eyes. “Not that I’m complaining, but what brought that on?” 

Erik stroked his thumb against Charles’ cheek, hoping his smile wasn't too strained. “Let’s go to bed.” 

That seemed to take Charles aback slightly, but he didn’t protest. Not that it stopped him from giving Erik poorly disguised worried glances as they moved upstairs hand in hand. Maybe Erik wasn’t so good at hiding his distress as he thought. 

The bedroom door closed behind him and Charles didn’t hesitate. He stepped close to Erik, bringing a hand to Erik’s cheek in a comforting gesture. “Darling, what’s wrong? Are...are you still upset from this morning?” 

Erik felt every frustrating, vulnerable emotion from his encounter with Shaw bubble to the surface, overwhelmed at the sheer earnestness in Charles’ too-blue eyes. Slowly, he shook his head “No...not this morning. I just….” Something inside him broke at seeing Charles after the long day of trying to bury everything and he surged forward, wrapping the shorter man up in a crushing embrace. “God, I just need to hold you.” 

Charles’ arms came around him on instinct, holding him right back as he whispered softly. “It’s alright, Erik, I’m here. You’ve got me.” 

Slowly, they stepped for the bed, removing only needless outer layers until they were each down to briefs and undershirts. Curling up under the covers, Charles let Erik wrap his taller form around him, draping an arm over his stomach, breath tickling the back of his neck. 

Erik breathed deep the scent of coconut, forcing himself not to recoil. He would have to get Charles some new shampoo and conditioner immediately. He interlaced his fingers with Charles’, wanting to just lose himself in the comfort of holding Charles close. But there were too many things to be said. 

Best to just get it over with. He swallowed. “Sebastian Shaw is still alive.” 

Charles stilled, stiffening in Erik’s embrace. “Say that again...?”

“Shaw’s alive. You had hinted that he might be...when I couldn’t say that I saw him dead. And you were right.” Erik squeezed their conjoined hands. “He’s still fucking _alive_.” 

In a rush of breath, Erik found himself on his back with Charles’ full weight pinning him to the mattress. The crushing force of Charles’ hands encircled each wrist, held immobile against the bed sheets. Even despite the emotional impact of the moment, Erik couldn’t deny his body’s response to Charles’ forceful dominance. 

“Where,” Charles’ voice trembled with thinly veiled rage, “where _is_ he?” 

Erik pinched his mouth to a fine line, taking a breath to respond. “You can’t just go after him, Charles.”

Feral determination glinted in Charles’ eyes as he gripped Erik’s wrists tighter. “And why the hell not? Each minute that man draws breath is a threat to humanity. And we’re just...we’re just _laying_ here?” 

“Yes, yes we are. Because it’s what they expect. The minute we do anything aberrant is the minute they know.” 

Charles’ tongue wet his lips in contemplation. “Does Shaw know that you know?” 

“Yes...we - we talked.” 

“Then, he already knows and none of it matters.” 

“He’s not telling Janos or Azazel that I know...he -,” Erik’s voice caught in his throat, choking on his words, “it’s a fucking taunt because I...I couldn’t - I didn’t….” 

Charles swept a tender thumb along the inside of Erik's wrist as Erik grappled for words, lowering his head to nuzzle encouragingly on Erik's cheek. “Didn’t what, darling?” 

“Because I had him there and didn’t - couldn’t kill him,” Erik shook with pent up rage, frustration and humiliation, “he was right fucking _there_ , and all he said was my mother’s name and I didn't...I just…walked away.” Traitorous tears stung his eyes again, leaking out to wet his cheeks. It hadn’t been any easier to confess to Charles, but the tight knot in his chest had loosened and he didn’t feel quite so on the verge of combusting. Perhaps there was some power in confession. 

Charles shifted above him, pressing a kiss to his damp cheek as the pressure on his wrists eased. “I am so _proud_ of you. I know from your voice you think it a weakness, but what you did took such strength.” He dropped another kiss to Erik’s cheek, but Erik just shook his head. 

“How can you say that? You - who not a minute ago said that every second that man breathes is a threat.” Shaw’s words had echoed in his head all day and he had to ask. “Have...have you killed before, Charles?” 

Charles paused his shower of affection, but didn’t draw back. Erik pressed on, needing to know for sure. “Angel? Banshee? Alex?” 

Charles dropped his head to the pillow beside Erik’s, gusting a heavy breath. “Yes.” 

“That’s how you...did what you could as you were able, right? To help them?” Erik wished he could run a reassuring hand down Charles’ back. “A mercy killing?” 

Another heavy breath issued from the man above him. “At least you understand, even if you don’t approve. And I don’t blame you.” Charles paused for another breath. “I’m not proud of it, nor do I consider myself anything close to an angel of mercy - there was very little merciful about it at all. It’s blood on my hands that I have to live with for the rest of my life.” He angled his head on the pillow and Erik could feel the magnetic pull of those eyes. “It’s blood that I would never want to see stain your hands. So, yes, I am _proud_ of you. You...possess a strength that I cannot match.” 

Erik turned his head on the pillow, finding Charles’ lips in the low light. He pushed against the grip of Charles’ hands, finding the shorter man relent and wrapping his arms tightly around Charles’ lean frame. “I know Shaw told me because he thought it would drive a wedge between us, but...god help me, I trust you Charles, I lo-.” He choked off the words before he could condemn himself. 

Warm, strong fingers fell to his jaw in a gentle caress. “I love you, too. But I don't know if I should, though.” He sighed, snuggling into Erik’s embrace. “I recognize that you’re the first man I’ve met in almost 80 years, and the first man I’ve ever been able to be truly _free_ around. But even once we deal with Shaw and leave this place far behind us, I don’t see how I could possibly want anything better than what I’ve already found in you.” 

Erik’s heart soared, but he still found himself scoffing. “Don’t sell yourself short, Charles, and you should never settle. The real world...will change things. It’ll be morning alarms, and bills - and arguing over who takes the bins out this time, and why is there a bleach stain on this shirt, and do we order pizza or Chinese tonight.” 

“If those are the kind of disagreements we have in front of us, those sound far easier to overcome than strife about prison cells in your demented, still-living uncle’s laboratory basement.” 

A laugh startled from Erik and he couldn’t hold back a smile, gobsmacked at the entire situation. Gobsmacked, but too strung-out to question it any further. He angled his head, pressing a kiss to Charles’ forehead, nuzzling in the soft, loose hair. “I love you, Charles.” 

Charles’ fingers continued to play on Erik’s jaw, flattening out to just hold him close. Erik had never experienced a more profound, comforting, exhilarating moment of just loving and being loved. None of the romantic comedies even came close. 

Charles shifted, his hand falling to Erik’s chest as he blew a reluctant exhale. “Now that we each know where we stand - now, will you tell me where Shaw is?” 

Erik matched his breath. “He’s in one of the apartments above the garage.” 

“I see.” 

He held the shorter man closer. “I told him what I was going to do to this place - told him it deserved to be destroyed for all the atrocities committed here. Then, maybe those lost souls will find some peace.” 

Charles’ tongue darted out, swiping along his top lip in consideration. “I’m...glad to hear that’s your decision. Selling this place, allowing anyone else to have the opportunity to live here is indeed a disservice to their memories.” His brow pinched as he slowly shook his head. “What I can’t figure out is why Shaw isn’t coming after you - us - himself. Why is he hiding?” 

“He can’t. A failed experiment with energy has him bedridden - looked like he was only alive from the array of machines around him.” Erik thought back to the converted kitchen. “And the collection of jarred serums, potions, elixirs, whatever you call them. None of them were labeled, but I could see the bright yellow of your eternal youth serum among them.” 

“That’s also contributing to the fact that he still lives.” 

“But we can end it if we just steal it all. Steal it and torch the place - the garage _and_ the house.” 

Charles hummed in consideration. “That won’t stop Janos.” 

“Then, I draw him out while you take what you need. Once you’re clear, we’ll let the place burn.” 

“I don’t know if that will be enough.” 

“It has to be - with the house gone, the laboratory’s gone and all the remaining stores are gone. Shaw can’t move himself, and if Janos and Azazel are otherwise occupied, then the fire will take care of the rest.” 

Charles’ mouth lifted with a hint of sad regret. “Arson won’t keep his blood from staining your hands.” 

“No,” Erik admitted with a sigh, “but it won’t add any more stain to yours.” 

“You needn’t worry about me. I can’t imagine how difficult this is for you.” 

“For me?” Erik arched an incredulous brow. “You’re the one that he kept confined here for almost 80 years….” 

“And if he hadn’t, I never would have met you. That’s easily the only good thing to have ever happened under this roof.” 

“All the more reason for this roof to come down.” Erik covered Charles’ hand with his. “We’ll take each other with us when we leave the ruins behind, knowing full well that the best days are ahead.” He brushed a kiss to Charles’ forehead. “You said it yourself - the demons of this place aren’t easy to reconcile, but tomorrow we can take a first big step.” 

“Tomorrow.” Charles’ voice held a note of uncertainty, but he nodded slowly against the pillow in agreement. 

Suddenly, Erik’s mind buzzed with anticipation, both dreading and wanting dawn to come. It was time, once and for all, to do something about this place. It was time, once and for all, for Shaw to pay for his sins. And it was time, once and for all, to be free from the ghosts of the past and just live - for both himself and Charles. 

He sighed, throwing his head back against the pillow. How would he ever get some sleep tonight? 

Charles’ fingers skimmed down his chest. “Not sleepy yet?” 

“Not even close.” 

Those teasing fingers found the hem of his shirt, rucking it up to toy with the waistband of Erik’s boxer briefs. Lips ghosted his as silky words purred. “Then, let me help.” 

When Charles finally, _finally_ relented - Erik dropped back to the mattress a boneless, mindless, sweaty mess, and when his eyes closed, he found nothing but dreamless sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loved all the feedback on the last chapter! Thanks for everyone's support!   
> Hopefully this chapter isn't too controversial, but with the role reversal angle of Erik's & Charles' characters in this tale, this Erik would/should have more of a moral compass that would restrain him (no matter how big he talks in his own mind)...also, it just didn't work for Erik to just kill Shaw on the spot....Though, if there are disagreements, I'm certainly open to hearing them!


	13. Your fight is with me

Even in Charles’ arms, the dawn brought apprehension and alert anxiety that Erik hadn't known before. But he was ready – ready to put this all behind him and be done with it. They each dressed with perfunctory motions – Erik retrieving his clothes from yesterday as Charles dressed in dark gray slacks and a blue shirt, cuffing the long sleeves at his elbows.

“You shouldn’t wear that shade of blue,” Erik said casually, buttoning his trousers, “it’s too distracting with your eyes.”

Charles scoffed as he continued to cuff his sleeves. “That is rather the point.”

Erik ran his gaze over the fit of Charles’ trousers, noting they were the same from that first morning in the laboratory – a higher-waisted, looser-fit with a vintage vibe that still flattered his lean frame. Raking a hand through his loose, dark hair, Erik only wanted to scoop him up and take him right back to bed. 

Instead, he settled for stepping up to Charles, placing a hand on the shorter man’s hip to hug his back to Erik’s chest. His other arm encircled Charles’ waist, just holding him close for a minute. Charles stilled his movements, leaning back into Erik’s embrace, turning to rest his nose against Erik’s cheek, just breathing together. Erik couldn’t shake the feeling that this moment felt more intimate than anything else they’d done in bed last night.

Erik shifted to press a tender kiss to Charles’ cheek.

“Love you, too, darling.” Charles returned his kiss. “You needn’t worry so much, you know.”

Erik wanted to respond on the defensive – he wasn’t worried, Erik Lehnsherr never worried. It was just a waste of time and energy. Usually. But as he stood here with Charles in his arms, he couldn’t shake a sense of dread that something – anything – could happen today to take Charles away from him.

He hugged Charles closer. “You shouldn’t know me so well.”

“It’s not a weakness.” Charles pressed another kiss. “We’ll have to work on that.”

He shared a last kiss with Charles, cupping and caressing the smooth jawline, gazing into twin oceans for a moment of peace. God, Charles was everything he wanted.

After disentangling, he returned to his own room to grab a shower, a shave and fresh clothes. Breakfast waited in the study as usual, and it struck him that he was about to bite the hand that literally fed him. He couldn’t quite stomach all of the sausage and eggs, but the coffee would provide more fuel anyway.

Now, he could get started. He climbed up to the attic, moving systematically room by room on each level. He even stuck his head in the master bedroom – a sacrifice he could make for one final showdown – but he needed to confirm the house was empty. Even Charles had already retreated from the house, presumably laying in wait until Erik could create a distraction to draw Janos’ and Azazel’s attentions.

After confirming there was no sign of the silent housekeeper, Erik returned to the attic and again retraced his steps. He wouldn’t put it past this house to have as-of-yet undiscovered hidden passageways, and he didn’t want to risk that Janos had outmaneuvered him. 

But the house was well and truly empty.

Now, he just had to find something that would immediately grab the housekeeper’s attention. He quickly considered tearing down the pinned insect displays, smashing the glass panes – but that wouldn’t draw him to the house with any urgency. Same with the Crystal Library – yes, he could destroy and dismantle but Janos wouldn’t discover that until much later.

His mind turned to the charred room of half-burned furniture. Anger still simmered under his skin to think of the effort he expended to haul the furniture outside only to have Quested just bring it all back inside. Shaw may still be alive, but this house was legally Erik’s, dammit. That half-burned furniture was his to do with as he pleased.

The realization seized him – the furniture was only _half-_ burned.

With a pleased grin, he knew his next stop in the attic. It was easy to find one of the boxes full of jumpers and haul it down to the back hallway outside the charred room. It wasn’t so easy to pick the stripped lock, but fortunately Shaw’s collection of letter openers in the study came in handy. The door swung open to the dim interior of grey light, courtesy of the thick clouds outside.

Wedging the doors open, Erik once again began dragging the collection of singed furniture outside, this time creating a haphazard pyre out in the middle of the wide gravel pathway. He stuffed random jumpers into the gaps between furniture, anything to help encourage the spread.

Taking a box of matches from the kitchen, he struck one in a flash of phosphorous and dropped it on a jumper. The dry wool caught fire instantly. His mouth curved in wild rapture to watch the flames spread and consume. He stepped around his pyre to another jumper, lighting another match. Soon, he had five small fires smoking and growing, catching on the furniture and building into one brilliant display of red and orange flames. Smoke billowed in a thick column from the unmistakable sight.

Let Quested try and restore this furniture to the charred room _now_.

He turned to stare at the garage, daring, wanting, hoping to see Quested emerge into the cloud-filtered light. This would all go to shit, otherwise. So far, Erik’s meddling hadn’t been anything that Quested couldn’t undo, but now that Erik had actually destroyed something of Shaw’s…surely, that would provoke an immediate response.

At long last, the side garage door opened. Wind caught Quested’s long hair as he approached with Azazel hot on his heels. Erik didn’t know the depths of the chauffer’s loyalty, but his red cheeks and slightly uneven steps made Erik wonder if he was hungover. Quested, however, radiated fury in his immaculate light grey suit, gaze fixed on Erik.

Erik straightened to his full, intimidating (at least according to his coworkers) height, his own gaze hardening as he stood next to his burning bonfire. “It’s over, Janos,” he called out. “Your loyalty to Shaw ends now. His purpose – his mission – died with him, and I will see every last shred of his memory in this mausoleum destroyed.”

Quested leveled him with a deadly, yet decidedly amused glare as he continued to close the gap across the yard.

Erik continued to stall, hoping to catch a glimpse of Charles running for the garage. “Shaw wrote that you would protect his legacy – but this property is legally _mine_. You have no say on what becomes of this place or its furnishings.” He also knew better than to tip his hand on revealing that he knew the truth about Shaw. “If I want to dismantle those pinned insects, you have no say. If I want to burn the rest of the furniture and this house, you have no say. And you certainly have no authority to undo what I have already done.” As he continued to talk, he could make out no discernable movement around the garage.

He fought back a wave of concerned frustration, not letting the intensity of his gaze waver from his foe. “As master of this manor, I demand that you leave this property and never return.”

The corner of Quested’s mouth lifted in mockery of a smile. Coupled with the bonfire glow, it painted his face in distinctly menacing lines as he continued to stare back, silent as the grave. Erik held his ground next to the pile of flaming furniture, struck with the vague notion that this resembled a standoff shootout from the classic western films.

Quested looked to Azazel with a silent nod. The chauffeur returned the motion before disappearing in a puff of red smoke. Erik blinked, unsure if he should trust his eyes. But the man had truly just vanished. Good god, what kind of alchemy experiment was _that_? Before Erik could respond or act, the red-faced man popped back into view, only now, he wasn’t alone. Shaw’s weakened, frail form sat in a wheelchair adorned with a portable machine with a nasal cannula and IV attached.

Shaw shook his head slowly, tutting with harsh breaths. “Dear me, Liebling. What have you _done_?”

Erik forced a hard swallow. “I told you I would destroy this place.”

Shaw’s mouth pulled to that eerie, disconcerting smile. “And I wished you luck.”

Without warning, Quested drew a deep inhale, his eyes boring through Erik. Pursing his lips, he exhaled steadily, raising one hand as if…as if to _capture_ his breath. Slowly, a swirling vortex started to form in his hand, his fingers curling to sculpt and coax the shape.

Erik stared awestruck. Now just what hellish power had Shaw’s devilry given Quested? The dark-haired man shot his hand forward, sending the rushing whirlwind straight towards Erik.

He couldn’t move fast enough and the force of the wind knocked him from his feet, throwing him a couple meters from the bonfire. He hit the ground with a loud cry, head spinning as he tried to regain his bearings. Nothing felt immediately broken, but dammit, he hurt. Through labored breaths and dizzy vision, he pushed to his knees.

How could he possibly fight back against someone who could unleash tornados?

Charles needed to hurry up, dammit. He really didn’t want to die today.

Still reeling from the blow, he watched Quested summon another whirling vortex into being, bigger than before that required both of his arms to contain. He released both arms and the whirlwind flew forth right as Erik scrambled to his feet.

The vortex slammed into the bonfire, snuffing out the flames in a loud sweeping, suffocating rush. Erik barely noticed as he dove low for Quested’s knees. But Quested reacted even faster, a strong hand clamping on Erik’s shoulder like a vice to wrench him around, feet over head. His back landed hard against the gravel, bearing the full brunt of his weight. Air punched from his lungs on impact, and he desperately gulped down more through the splintering pain. He didn’t even see the new whirlwind that hit him, lifting him up, twisting him midair. He landed in the grass with a cry, skidding along on his stomach, his shirt bunching up to scrape his torso. His head spun, eyes unfocused as he glanced back at the three figures still looming in front of him.

“Quested!”

Relief surged through Erik at hearing Charles’ cry over the rush of blood in his ears. He clawed at the grass, forcing himself to blink clearly in order to stare at the back porch. The backdoor to the house was still open, just as Erik had left it, but standing on the wide, stone steps, was Charles. His eyes burned with hard determination and furious anger as he stared down at Quested, Azazel, and, of course, Shaw.

Erik also couldn’t help but notice the two haversacks slung across Charles’ torso, one resting against each hip. God, he hoped those sacks contained the serum. They needed to get out of here and end this.

“Leave him alone, Janos.” Charles’ commanding and authoritative tone brokered no argument. “Your fight is with me. Not him.”

Shaw cackled with raw, elated glee. “Oh, my darling baby doll. How I have missed you! And look, I think you missed me, too – you know how much I like seeing you in that color. Brings out those beautiful baby blues.”

“Never again,” Charles snarled, standing firm on the steps, “your days of hurting people – hurting Erik, hurting _me_ – are done."

“Tsk, tsk, Charles.” Shaw wheezed again with that awful scolding noise. “It wasn’t me who hurt those people – it wasn’t me who sent them to their graves.”

“You kept me _locked_ down there _with_ them! Hours upon hours of endless screaming, endless suffering, endless _agony_!” Charles’ face twisted with the ferocity of unwanted, torturous memories. “None of them deserved what you did to them. None of them deserved to be so needlessly _tortured_!”

“Tortured?” Shaw’s gravely tone bordered on incredulity, but Erik could only see the back of his head. “You were there all those years, doll. You _saw_ what we were accomplishing together. And now…you say tortured? You mean perfected! Just as I perfected myself, Janos, Azazel – and yourself!”

“There’s nothing perfect about you, them, me – any of us!” Charles gestured out. “All of us are walking abominations on this earth, and _none_ of us have the right to still be alive.”

Erik’s heart leapt to his throat, panic exploding in his chest. Just…just what the hell was Charles saying? Surely, he didn’t – couldn’t mean that. Wearily, Erik pulled to his knees, groaning as white hot pain lanced through his torso.

Concern flashed in Charles’ eyes, a crack in his stern, imposing demeanor. But the crack didn’t last. Those blue eyes burned with enraged hatred for the decades of atrocities witnessed. “ _Everything_ about this place deserves to be dead and buried,” Charles’ voice continued to carry across the yard, strong with conviction, " _you all_ deserve to be dead and buried. _I_ deserve to be dead and buried. I stood by, complicit in decades of unspeakable horrors that should never see the light of day again for the rest of human existence.”

Erik’s heart hammered in his chest. He had to stop to Charles, he had to get to his feet. This wasn’t what they had agreed to. He couldn’t lose Charles – he just couldn’t. Not so soon after finding him.

“My goodness, you’re in a dramatic, fatalistic mood today.” Shaw dismissed, sounding far more amused than he had any right. “I always admired your naïve optimism and wondered when it would _break_ you.” He waved a weak hand vaguely in Erik’s direction. “I knew my nephew was fond of my doll, but I had no idea that you’d betray me so heartlessly. That wounds my heart, baby boy.”

“You don’t have a heart. You never did.” Charles reached into the haversack on his left hip, extracting a clear bottle with a mossy green liquid. A small coil of rope stuck out of the stoppered cork. He hefted the bottle in his left hand as a lighter appeared in his right. His thumb hovered dangerously over the spark wheel. “You recognize this, I take it?”

Another garbled peal of laughter issued from Shaw. “Oh, now it’s a party!”


	14. Yeah...only you

Shaw's garbled cackle continued to carry across the lawn. "You never cease to amaze me!" 

Charles’ gaze never wavered as he hefted the bottle of green liquid, poising the lighter near the rope coil in the stoppered cork. "You should know there’s more of these – scattered throughout the house, in fact. And these bags?” He shrugged his shoulders, jostling the haversacks to make the glass contents rattle. “The eternal youth serum supply – which without, none of us will live to see the end of next month.” He shook his head, face twisting in almost unrecognizable rage. " _It_ has no place on this Earth – and neither do _we_!”

“Charles, no!” The plea tore from Erik before he could stop it.

The chauffeur vanished in a puff of red smoke, and Charles moved nearly as fast. Flame sparked on the lighter and he touched it to the bottle’s rope coil, dropping it to the stone where he stood before darting back with lightning speed. A brilliant green fireball exploded as the bottle hit and broke against the stone just in the same second as the chauffeur materialized where Charles previously stood. His clothes caught the eerie green flames, spreading and burning with unnatural heat as his pained screams filled the air. Shaw howled something indistinguishable as Quested charged forward.

Erik struggled to see through the bright green blaze and black smoke, watching helplessly as Quested loped towards Charles with unbeatable speed. In another flurry of movement, Charles extracted a second bottle of green liquid, setting it alight and hurling it into the air before he charged into the house with Quested giving chase.

Erik watched, stunned as the flaming bottle arced through the air, smashing to the ground just in front of Shaw’s wheelchair. Another spray of burning liquid burst into view, burning with rapidly consuming fury. Shaw didn’t stand a chance. His own agonized cries now filled the air and Erik couldn’t look away from the power of such sudden destruction and death. It…it wasn’t like any bomb, but more like liquid fire…like the only image Erik’s mind could conjure for comparison – napalm.

A deep, rumbling explosion from within the house drew his attention away from Shaw’s still flaming corpse. Erik’s heart stuck in his throat as he could see green-orange flames lick the interior around the open door, smoke billowing out into the grey sky. Terror paralyzed him – Charles was still inside. His Charles – Charles who needed to get out. Charles who needed to not die. 

With great, slow, dizzying effort, he pulled himself to feet. He couldn’t just let Charles go that easily – it wasn’t worth it, this self-sacrifice play, this…whatever the hell this was. He wanted Charles, he needed Charles in his life. He just…just _couldn’t_.

Everything hurt as he lumbered forward on uneven steps, his breath coming in short, shallow draws as anything else put him close to collapse. His head felt kilometers from his feet – but he _had_ to keep going. He had to help Charles – he had to stop Charles from destroying the serum that would keep him alive.

An unnatural green glow started to shine out from the ground floor windows as smoke poured out the door now in a thick, dark column. Erik couldn’t use that door to get inside – he’d have to try around front. Hobbling around the house, his eyes widened with further dread to take in the green glow that spread nearly everywhere along the interior windows. He felt sick to his stomach – just how exactly would he find Charles amongst all that flame? But compartmentalization – first things first. Get to the front door.

Each step forward lanced sidesplitting pain through Erik’s midsection, but he had to keep moving – step by step, one foot in front of the other.

Glass shattered in a blinding fury as the weight of a body crashed through a window. Erik could just make out the bright blue blur of Charles’ shirt as he moved – trying to tuck into the landing as green flame licked one shoulder. He cried out as he landed in the grass, sliding to an ungraceful stop in a tangle of limbs. With another pained cry, Charles thrashed against the ground in a desperate attempt to extinguish the unnatural fire that consumed his shoulder.

Erik stood frozen, unable to believe it.

Charles’ gaze, wide and panicked and pained, found his. “Get dow-“

The rest of Charles’ words disappeared in the roar of a massive, earsplitting explosion. The stone structure of the house groaned in protest under the sudden pressure wave, window panes fracturing in their frames to send a shower of glass raining down. Erik threw his arms up in defense as the reverberating shockwave swept his feet out from under him.

A high-pitched whine rang in Erik’s ears as he laid in the grass, fighting against all the aches in his body. Green and orange flames continued to consume the house, swallowing the structure in its raging glory and sending a column of black smoke high in the sky. There would be no hiding that now. Another point of panic seized him that someone in the village would call emergency services – but maybe they wouldn’t. Did it really matter? Erik just needed to close his eyes. To sleep. It’d be fine.

But what about Charles…? With a last surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, he forced his eyes open, rolling onto his side in the grass to see better. Charles now lay on his back, legs splayed with an arm slung across his face. Using his elbows in short bursts of movement, Erik pulled himself across the grass, only giving into the urge to collapse once he reached Charles’ side.

“What…,” Erik grappled for words through his ragged breaths as he pawed at Charles’ arm, “what…the ever-living _fuck_ was _that_?!” Raw panic colored his words. “You…you just can’t – you don’t get to decide….” It was then that Erik’s brain caught up to what he saw. Both haversacks were gone. Charles had lost them both.

Erik’s heart sank to his stomach, feeling unwanted tears sting his eyes. “You…you don’t have the serum. You’ll…you’re going to die, and you can’t…you _can’t_!”

“Erik, darling, please….” Charles exhaled a deep, uneven breath, sliding his arm down to reveal those heavenly blue eyes laced with pain and something far sweeter. “The serum wasn’t in those bags – it…it never was.”

“What?” Erik struggled to understand. “How…?”

The corner of Charles’ mouth ticked up. “You’re a heavy sleeper, my love.”

“Bullshit – I never have been.”

“This was quite effective, though, I must admit.” Charles pressed ahead through another exhale of obvious pain. “I’m actually amazed they believed me – I would’ve thought Shaw understood my motives for self-preservation by now –"

“Charles… _how_?” Erik reached for his arm, clawing at it to get a better look at the shorter man. “What…what did you do?”

A hint of regret clouded Charles’ features. “So, maybe I did help you sleep last night… _after_ you initially drifted off. You've a conveniently placed mole on your arm, so you needn't bother looking for the puncture mark. Not that we didn't have a sound plan last night, but I certainly couldn’t risk the real serum, but you were right - they had to think that’s what would go up in flames. So, I raided the supply last night while you slept and Janos tended to his house duties. It’s secure in the woods on the northside. Along with some other things that might be useful.”

Erik pulled himself up against Charles, eyes blazing. “And you didn’t tell me?!” He didn’t know whether to punch or kiss Charles. The heart-stopping terror of hearing Charles say that he didn’t deserve to live collided with the overwhelming relief of having Charles here, still alive and still breathing. “You…you let me think that you were going to kill yourse–"

“I know – it was cruel, I know.” A hand covered Erik’s where it twisted in Charles’ shirt. “But that’s it – it’s finished,” a breathy laugh sounded on Charles’ voice as his eyes drifted closed, “it’s over and I’m…I’m finally free. All those poor souls who died here…hopefully they can now find peace, too.”

Erik loosened his hand from Charles’ shirt, twisting to interlace their fingers. “You really are something else, you know that?” He let his eyes sweep over Charles, taking in the gash across his forehead that feely oozed, the burned and bloodied shoulder exposed by his singed shirt. “I don’t think I’ll ever have another boyfriend who catches on fire for our future.”

Charles cracked an eye to meet Erik’s assessing gaze. “If I have any say…I hope you never have another boyfriend again.”

“Why would I when I’ve already got the only man I’ve ever loved?” Last night may have felt too soon, but saying it now, Erik knew it to be absolute truth. Sure, it had only been two weeks and he’d downplayed it – but watching Charles charge into the house had dislodged something, permanently solidifying a realization that cracked him wide open for this man out of time who stole his heart.

Charles stared back with tender surprise and obvious adoration. “…ever loved?”

“Yeah…only you.”

Charles’ thumb swiped the back of his hand as his mouth inched up in a smile. “I’ve had no illus-"

Another explosion rocked the house, shaking the ground and cutting off Charles’ words. Several smaller explosions followed, deep underground, and a great rumbling crash echoed out of the flaming house.

Erik blinked. “Now what the hell was that?”

“The basement, most likely. I threw a couple bottles down there, but the flames would take some time to find their way-"

“What was in those bottles, Charles?” Erik cut him off, tone suddenly sharp. “It looked…like liquid fire. Like fucking green napalm.”

“Napalm?” Charles’ mouth upturned on the unfamiliar word. “I’m not sure what that is, but the bottles were a basic mixture of Greek fire.”

Erik stared back, deadpan. “Greek fire?”

“Mmm, a combination of naphtha source with quicklime. Nitre from the basement’s backrooms stabilizes the mixture, makes it slightly less volatile – but once set ablaze…it burns on any surface for hours, consuming anything flammable it touches. The exact composition of the original fire is unknown, as it was so compartmentalized to keep enemies from replicating its success, but the ancient manuscripts gave enough clues-"

Erik fisted his free hand in Charles’ shirt, wrenching him close with a bruising kiss. Through sharp pains and fading adrenaline, Charles met him head-on, basking in the reassuring contact. He gasped for a breath against the stabbing pain in his torso, pulling back to rest his nose against Charles’. “Not that I don’t like hearing you lecture, but I don’t think now’s the best time.”

Another smaller explosion rattled the house as something else collapsed with a loud crunching sound, as if to emphasize Erik’s point.

Charles eyed him cautiously. “Do you…can you sit up?”

With gasping grunts and measured movements, they helped each other sit up, dizzy from the change in elevation as they leaned against each other. The low wail of approaching sirens cut through the roar of the burning house. It could only be emergency services en route but…oh, god. Erik's stomach seized. 

How could they ever explain? Between Shaw’s burned corpse in the yard and the other two in the house…and the green flames? Not to even mention Charles’ presence. He had probably been listed dead or MIA in the Dunkirk campaign since 1940. There was no plausible way to tell the truth of Charles' existence. But legally, he had no existence otherwise – no birth certificate, no passport…nothing.

Erik turned an imploring gaze on Charles as the sirens drew closer. “We’ll have to tell them something. We can’t tell them who you really are – they’d lock me in prison, and you in a mental hospital.”

“Neither of those outcomes sound appealing,” Charles agreed, tongue swiping his bottom lip in consideration, “fortunately for us, we have three prison cells, three prisoners, one villain...and one hero.” 

Erik suddenly felt nauseous. But maybe that was the pain talking. “That will never work.” 

“Then, we’ll just have to sell it until it’s the only option that remains.” The speed at which Charles’ mind worked should probably be frightening, but in this moment, Erik’s addled brain could just about make sense of it. Ideas started to flash in his mind, and maybe…just maybe they could pull it off.

Erik nodded with a wince and groan of pain. “Let’s hope it’s enough.”


	15. Epilogue: Don't you dare

“You know, Charles, we had an office pool that Erik would be the last to get married or stay single forever. But I just _knew_ the right man was out there for him somewhere. So, thank you for proving me right and allowing me to win the betting pool!”

Erik nearly rolled his eyes. Raven was getting too much mileage out of this story. The office pool had been something he always ignored, but the large collection of younger singles hadn’t given him an out just for being older. Of all of his coworkers, though, Raven was the most sensible and, therefore, the most tolerable. Unfortunately, he could already tell that Charles and her would become fast friends.

“That’s quite something,” Charles flashed a warm, charming, deceptively innocent smile, “you must have a calling for prognostication to have picked this year of all years in the betting pool.” 

“Oh, it wasn’t this year.” Raven smirked triumphantly. “I was the only one to say that Erik would _ever_ find anyone to tolerate his perpetual grumpy face.” 

Charles teased a fleeting glance to Erik before turning back to Raven. “Rather an apt description. Fortunately for him, though, I’m rather fond of his perpetual grumpy face.” 

Again, Erik fought to reign in an eye-roll or equal show of annoyance. The annual corporate holiday party was never his favorite to begin with. But at least with Charles in attendance this year, he didn’t have to work overly hard at small talk and wouldn’t catch any flak for standing unsociably in a corner. A fair compromise. 

Raven continued with a playful, well-meaning smile. “Maybe you can even warm him up to the idea of an actual smile. Oh! We should start another betting pool - Erik’s first public smile, Erik’s first public display of human emotion.” 

Erik felt his fingers tighten around the stem of his martini glass, raising it for a drink only to - sadly - find it empty. 

Raven glanced at him with a suddenly genuine look. “And I only tease you because I’m really happy for you - you’ve managed to find someone who loves you in spite of your robotic emotional range - and that’s not an easy feat. And not only find him, but _marry_ him? Jesus, it’s like some fairy tale where a wooden character finds the prince and learns how to love.”

Erik tapped a finger against his empty glass. “Exceptional,” he deadpanned, noticing that Charles’ glass was similarly empty. 

Charles turned his smile on Erik, working those blue eyes far too well for such a public setting. “Oh stop it, darling, that’s quite a lovely compliment.” 

Of course, there was nothing fairy tale about how they met. And in general, it was a silly, childish notion to compare any modern romance to the stuff of fairy tales. But Erik flashed a hint of a smirk in response before stepping closer to Charles. He pressed his free hand to the small of Charles’ back over his crisp suit jacket, brushing a kiss to his temple as he reached to gather Charles’ empty glass in hand with his martini glass. “I’ll be right back.” 

He heard more than saw Raven’s enamored sequel of delight, hearing her tell Charles that she always believed that Mr. Tall-Dark-’n-Scary had a secretly romantic heart. Erik didn’t really care about Raven’s opinion either way. He knew how he felt about Charles and the weight of his wedding band told him all he needed to know about Charles’ feelings. 

As he wove through the crowd of suits and evening gowns, towards the bar, another moment of incredulity hit him. It had been a familiar feeling ever since the ambulance had carried him from the smoldering remains of Hellfire Manor and the hospital discharged him to resume his life. 

Somehow, they had managed to do it. The tale they wove of secret prisoners in the basement, of Shaw faking his death to frame Erik for their imprisonment, the subsequent escape and confrontation. Of course, Charles had worked those blue eyes to perfection with tears and wide-eyed innocence, shame, and fear. Truthfully, Erik had let him do most of the talking, mostly due to his series of broken ribs. Charles even had a ready explanation for the green flame that had nothing to do with Greek fire or napalm. 

Borax in household cleaners. That’s what the official report said. Apparently, it gave off green flame when burned. All Charles had done was hint that Shaw’s housekeeper had been overzealous with cleaning and over the years, with household cleaner residue build up, well…. 

It had still taken time for all that to resolve, though. Of course, the authorities were stupefied that Charles had no legal existence, and of course, Charles offered no real clues. Eventually, the authorities decided that Charles had been abducted at a young enough age and could be any of the countless, unsolved missing children reports. Since Charles would have been too young to remember, they couldn’t exactly fault him. 

It still amazed Erik that Charles passed every hurdle with flying colors. Even his blood work had no obvious flags. But Erik guessed that was because no one thought to test for formaldehyde, fungicides and whatever else he injected each month. Even every psychological evaluation turned out acceptable - of course, it was expected that he was a bit out of touch and naïve about the modern world, but no obvious triggers for acute or post traumatic stress disorder, or Stockholm syndrome. But a condition of his release from the hospital was regular check-ins with a psychiatrist for the first six months just to be safe. As much as Erik didn’t like people prying into his business, he had to admit it was a good decision for Charles. Hopefully he had gained something from the sessions even though he held to a specifically crafted image. But that first day, when Charles was finally discharged from the hospital and Erik took his hand on the sidewalk outside, the blue sky above had never held such endless, open possibility. 

And, just like that, Charles Xavier, age 28, origin unknown, joined the modern world. 

Cheeky bastard. Of course, he would choose to be two years younger than Erik. 

But Erik couldn’t begrudge him really. Not when a whole year later - just one month ago - Charles made Erik the happiest man on the planet. 

He motioned to the bartender for refills, reaching in his jacket pocket for the drink tickets. Just one more round, then they would head home. After a three-week honeymoon and returning just in time for the bustle of Christmas and New Years, he wanted to hide away with Charles and forget the real world for at least another week. 

“Hey, Erik,” Hank’s familiar voice broke his revere, “welcome back.” 

He nodded in greeting at the younger, bespectacled man. “Thank you.” 

“A silly question, I'm sure - but it was a good honeymoon?” 

In spite of himself, Erik felt the corner of his mouth tick up in a smile. “The best.” And it truly had been. Traveling western Europe - seeing the places of Charles’ past, taking in the wonders of the modern cities, relaxing on the Mediterranean coast - watching Charles bask in the joy of SPF 50 sunscreen on rare, warm days. Taking each other apart against crisp sheets at night, letting Charles con him into lazy breakfasts in bed. 

“Glad to hear.” Hank said with a nod before thanking the bartender for his beer. “Is he here with you tonight?” 

Erik nodded his own thanks at the bartender, taking his martini and Charles’ drink in hand. “I left him with Raven.” 

Hank arched a questioning brow. “You sure that was a good decision?” 

Erik shook his head quick and dismissive. “He’s been making his own decisions long before I came around.” To the tune of about 90 years before Erik came around, but Hank didn’t need to know that. Erik indicated through the crowd with his right hand. “I’ll introduce you.” 

Actually, he just wanted an easy way to extricate Charles from Raven’s clutches. And there was no better way to do that than bring the obvious object of Raven’s affection around. He wasn’t sure if Hank was just oblivious or too uncomfortable to make a move, but it was almost embarrassing to watch the young blonde woman vie for his attention. 

“No, Charles - that’s not a story,” Raven’s voice carried as they approached, “I want to know!” 

“I wish it was more exciting than that, Raven, but that’s the truth of it.” 

“Erik,” Raven turned to him as he handed Charles his drink, ignoring Hank for the moment, “Charles tells me that you two met in a coffee shop while you were away tending to your uncle’s estate and Charles was on a research trip. I mean, seriously? You’re the most unsociable person on the planet and you just ‘met’ Charles? That’s the stuff of fiction!” 

That was the second version of the ‘how they met story’ that they crafted. Since recounting the version from the newspaper would be too exhausting and telling the truth was impossible, they had to come up with something. But maybe there was still some fun to be had with it. 

Erik took a sip of his martini. “You’re right, Raven,” he nodded stiffly, “it is the stuff of fiction. Charles and I actually met at my uncle’s estate, in his masterclass alchemist laboratory when Charles needed another dose of a serum that’s kept him alive for almost 105 years.” 

Her lips pulled to a thin, distantly annoyed line. “Alright, fine. You don’t have to tease _that_ hard.” Her face softened when she looked to Hank. “Please tell me you’re here to save me from this insufferable treatment.”

Hank’s face visibly brightened, his smile faltering with a hint of excited nerves. “Sure...of course, I’d be happy to.” 

“My hero.” She stepped up to Hank’s side and Erik sipped his drink in relief. Hank could easily meet Charles another time. Raven offered a parting farewell and best wishes for the holidays as she tucked her arm in Hank’s, proceeding to endearingly fluster the younger man as she steered him away. 

“And you call me devious.” Charles’ voice drew his gaze, taking in the mischievous smirk on those rose-tinted lips. 

“Raven’s never been very subtle with her intentions about Hank.” 

“I might have to start calling you ‘Cupid’.” 

“Don’t you dare.” 

Charles hummed softly against the rim of his glass. “No, I think I much prefer calling you ‘husband’. Though, I am surprised at you, husband. A gentleman should know better than to go around divulging his spouse’s real age.” 

Erik’s mind flashed back to that night in Charles’ bathroom at the manor, to finding him lounging in sudsy water with those lips wrapped around a cigarette. He smiled, wolfish. “You should know by now that I’m not a gentleman.” 

Charles’ lips pulled to a soft smile as he tapped his wedding ring in a metallic clink against the glass. “I know exactly what I married. Now behave, darling. We're still in public for the time being." 

"And when we're not?" 

Charles cut him with a smoldering look that evaporated nearly as quick, leaving his soft, pleasant expression in place. "I'll have you spread before me and begging for me, using nothing but my tongue." 

Heat suffused Erik's blood, every nerve-ending alighting at the promise in Charles' voice. Oh yes, he would behave. And yes, he would willingly beg under the delicious, maddening touches of Charles' tongue. Only for Charles. 

Only for his husband.

Only for the love of his life who he would hold for the rest of his life. 

Who knew enduring such hell would lead to such heaven? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we come to the end, just barely hit my goal of having it all done & posted by the Christmas holidays!   
> Thank you to everyone who supported this journey and enjoyed the ride along the way! There are so many wonderful Cherik fics out there and I love what each one brings to the table. It was a unique joy to write this one and contribute to a great fandom.   
> Cheers until next time!


End file.
